Twenty Six Letters
by poestheblackcat
Summary: This is my annual birthday challenge to write one one-shot for every year, updated daily until my birthday. This year's theme is the alphabet. Now up: Z is for Zombie Apocalypse. The Leverage team deals with the zombie apocalypse. Silliness, of course. Last one!
1. A is for Aardvark

AN: Hi guys! *waves* The time for my annual birthday fic has come around again. I know, I know. Some of you are probably upset (okay, maybe not _upset_ , but at least slightly annoyed?) that I haven't updated anything or written anything new since my last birthday fic. Lots of reasons, but mainly that I haven't really felt the urge to write lately. I've been reading a lot and watching different/new stuff ( _Doctor Who, The Musketeers, Merlin_ – mostly BBC shows, _The Librarians,_ _Grimm,_ and the _Harry Potter_ series), but not writing anything much. Sorry. I am, however, trying to get my birthday collection out there for you guys.

So this year is the same routine as in previous years: One chapter a day until my birthday for every year that I've been alive. This year's theme is 26 letters (for the English-language alphabet). The alphabet thing has been done countless times before, but I've never actually tried it myself. So here goes!

Hope you enjoy this year's birthday collection!

Summary: This is my annual birthday challenge to write one one-shot for every year, updated daily until my birthday. This year's theme is the alphabet. Now up: A is for Aardvark. Parker goes shopping at the zoo…

* * *

 **A is for Aardvark**

"No, Parker, you can't keep it," Nate says, pinching the bridge of his nose for the tenth time in as many minutes.

"But he's lonely," Parker says, sticking her bottom lip out as far as it can go. "He likes me."

She cuddles the yellowish-gray, coarse-haired animal with its long, narrow face that only a mother (and evidently, Parker) could love close to her chest and nuzzles her cheek against the top of the triangular head. The baby aardvark – for indeed, aardvark it is – gives a quiet grunt and licks the bulbous end of its snout with a long, thin tongue. The rabbit-like ears swivel towards Nate and twitch, as if waiting for his reply.

"Parker," he sighs, and rubs his face with both hands. "No." He contemplates pulling his hair out, but reconsiders; he's starting to go bald up top, so he really needs to stop with the hair-pulling.

"Please?"

Nate admits defeat and gives his unruly curls a good tug. It makes him feel marginally better.

"Artie's nocturnal and likes to swim and dig holes," Parker says brightly, as if reading from a pamphlet, "He eats ants and termites. And cucumbers, too," she adds as an afterthought with a wrinkle of her nose in disgust at the thought of eating a _vegetable_ (well, fruit, actually), "but nobody's perfect. _Please,_ Nate." Her bottom lip sticks out again, this time with the addition of what Hardison once called the "mega-huge anime eyes." With a side of shiny crocodile tears.

Speaking of Hardison, he and Eliot arrive at just that moment "forcefully discussing" measures that ought to be taken in the event of a zombie apocalypse _(what?!)_ and Nate takes the opportunity to say in a loud, authoritative voice, "No, Parker, you may not keep it," sure that he will soon be backed up by the saner members of the team.

"Keep what?" Hardison asks, pausing mid-argument to look at Nate and Parker. As the blonde thief has her back to him, he does not immediately see the aardvark curled up in her arms until she turns around, and—

" _Ahhhhhhh!"_ he shrieks, and scrambles away from the ginormous zombie rat-dog hybrid thing to hide behind Eliot, almost climbing him in his terror (an action that he would later vociferously deny). "What is it?! It's evil! It's looking at me! Get it away from me! Rabies!"

The baby aardvark is indeed looking at him, but not in preparation for an attack. On the contrary, it squeals in alarm and scrabbles in Parker's arms, instinctively trying to burrow away from the loud, humanoid, shrilly screaming thing.

"Ow!" Parker cries, as the animal scratches at her with its hard nails, and drops it. She pouts again, this time with betrayal directed at her new supposed-to-be friend. "Ow, Artie."

Artie the Aardvark, now freed, scrambles away from Parker and away from the screeching Hardison, who has now climbed up onto the counter for safety, and snuffles its way towards the door. It doesn't quite make it there, as two large hands reach down and pick it up.

The poor creature's legs scrabble in the air in front of Eliot as he examines the ugly, cat-sized baby aardvark with a hard glare. The aardvark struggles a few seconds longer, then goes limp, playing dead. It is obviously tired out both from its exertions and from the fact that it is currently midday and thus way past the usual bedtime for nocturnal animals. After a few more silent moments, Artie cracks open its beady little eyes, squeaks pitifully, and wiggles its long, skinny nose.

Eliot's lips curl up in a rare smile. "Aw," he says, changing his grip on the animal so that it curls up in the crook of his arm like a strange, overgrown rat-like baby, "You're alright, darlin'." He scratches the soft, pink belly. Then he shouts over at Hardison, still squealing and shuddering on the kitchen counter: "Hardison, shut up. She ain't gonna eatcha."

"She?" exclaim three incredulous voices.

"She," Eliot answers with a glower at them all. "Female baby aardvark."

"How—?"

"I dated a zoologist once" is his predictable reply. Then he adds, "Aren't you a beauty?" to the grunting gray thing that is licking his face in gratitude.

"Uh, Eliot?" Nate says, dreading what's going to happen next.

Nate is momentarily spared from his next question by the clacking of heels through the door, heralding Sophie's arrival.

"Oh, you're all here," she observes, giving each of them a warm smile that freezes on her face when she sees the _thing_ in Eliot's arms.

Predictably, she shrieks.

"Seriously?" Eliot growls, "What the hell is wrong with you people? Can't you see you're scarin' her?" he snarls, then proceeds to calm poor Artie down by cooing at her and making all sorts of soothing sounds that the others never expected to ever hear from their gruff hitter.

"Um, Eliot?"

"Mm? _(Aren't you the prettiest little aardvark there ever was? Yes, you are! Yes, you are!)"_

"You know we can't keep it," Nate says carefully. "We have to take it back to the zoo."

"Her!" is Eliot's only response (aside from the cooing, of course). "'She,' not 'it.'"

"Right." Nate clears his throat, then tries again, prompted into speaking up by three glares (though why Parker is now on the "get rid of it!" bandwagon he doesn't quite understand, not that he's complaining).

"Eliot," he says in his most commanding father-like tone, "You can't keep it- _her."_

Eliot completely ignores him and walks towards the kitchen. "Want some fruit, honey?" he asks conversationally in the kind of voice that he would never use on them, and sets the aardvark down on the countertop next to him.

Hardison squeaks and leaps off of the counter into Parker's arms.

"Meep?" he says desperately.

"Yeah, definitely," Parker replies, patting him on the head. "For sure."

. . . . . . . . . .

* * *

AN: So. What did you think? A little rusty? I think so, too, but it'll probably get better as I keep writing.

I usually like to start my birthday fics off with goofiness, but there will definitely be a variety of genres (angst, AU, humor, crossover, etc.) in this collection, just like always. I may also use some of my previous 'verses, such as the "Sky's Gonna Open" _Leverage/Angel_ stories and definitely the "Sticky Little Fingers" stories – all of which you can find on my profile.

(Confession: I think this may be my last birthday collection, since I'm not as into writing fanfic as I used to be. Also, 27 is a hard number to think of a theme for. Sorry guys, and thanks for all the support over the years! I hope this year's doesn't disappoint!)


	2. B is for Brocade

Summary: 18th century French AU of "The Rashomon Job." Powdered wigs, big dresses, and swashbuckling, oh my! A rather silly one, of course.

"Dude, honestly, I don't even know" warning: Probably extremely historically incorrect. I obviously don't know much about French history, other than what I've picked up over the years from movies and books (supplemented by the internet). This is what happens when I think "brocade" and _"Leverage"_ together. Actually, the first idea that came to mind was an Elizabethan-era pirates AU, but I couldn't really fit the brocade in there alongside the neck ruffs because even Sophie wouldn't wear a heavy dress like that to raid another ship – there _must_ be female pirate swashbuckling, after all! So this happened. Also, forgive me for the silly names and for not knowing where the heck all the accents on vowels go. You'll see what I mean. *hides*

* * *

 **B is for Brocade**

"I'm going to tell all you imposters about how _I_ stole the Arthurian Dagger*," Sophie says, smoothing down the silk of her blue and gold brocade dress and tucking a few stray strands back into her elaborately erected and perfectly powdered pompadour wig. She gives a smug, self-satisfied smile behind her fluttering lace fan at the explosion of jealous outrage that follows.

"Please, do go on," Alexandre Ardissón, called "Alec" by his friends, calms down enough to say, scoffing. Long, graceful fingers rub at a smudge of ink splattered purposely and artfully onto the parchment in front of him to match the ink stain on the letter that he is currently forging. "I would _love_ to hear your 'true' story on how _you_ stole the dagger that _I_ stole five years ago."

"Excuse me," Eliót Spenceur says, a scarred hand going to the handle of the rapier at his hip, _"You_ stole?" He's _that_ close to challenging the forger to a duel. And if Sophie was a man…But she's not, and his blessed _mère_ taught him better than to be rude to a lady, even if she is a thief.

"Liars, all liars," Parquois (just Parquois) says lightly, with an undercurrent of irritation, "I'm the one who stole the Arthurian Dagger five years ago!" She slips her lockpicking set out of the leg of her soft-soled leather boots that she wears with her unconventional, yet comfortable, men's clothes, and attacks the tiny lock of the small chest in front of her with careful, but easy precision. (No one asks where she got such an elaborately and expensively jeweled artifact worthy of the Medicis. They've learned by now that it's best not to ask.)

"And here's how _I_ stole it," Sophie cuts in (without raising her voice, of course, since that would be utterly unladylike, and if there's nothing she dislikes more, it's being unladylike…at least, unless she's in character as someone… _below_ her).

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

She only gets part of the way through her story of how she impersonated both an English noblewoman _and_ a visiting Vatican priest (in one con, no less) before Eliót is laughing at her. It had taken him a year to get used to them enough to laugh, with all their quirks, clashing personalities, and differences in class. Thieves they may all be, but they didn't all start out that way.

Sophie Devereaux had been…Well, _apparently_ she had been born into great wealth and noble family, or perhaps only one or neither, and had grown up learning the age-old art of manipulating people of high class. Parquois is a product of the Court of Miracles, abandoned at birth, or close enough to it that she doesn't remember anything before her hard life there. Ardissón is the son of a freed slave who was raised by nuns. Eliót, a soldier turned mercenary, who became an assassin, who in turn became a thief, is a man of many faces. And Nathanael Fourde, their leader, had worked for the moneylender Blaquepoule before a conspiracy involving the death of Nathanael's son had led to him leaving, taking with him certain…business secrets that are now common knowledge, due to the con that they had played on the unscrupulous Blaquepoule the previous year.

They had all started out far apart, in both geography and class, but in an unexpected turn of events, they had come together in their fight against corruption.

But now is a time for reminiscing. Talk of old schemes, both successful and not, has brought them to their current topic, the legendary (supposed) Dagger of King Arthur, which had been stolen five years previously.

That it had been stolen, and when, they could all agree on. But as to by whom…

Sophie had indignantly and with the prideful arrogance fitting of her station as a highborn lady (as she always insists) had begun her story before being rudely interrupted by Eliót's blatantly unconcealed sniggers.

"What?" she says, annoyed at the air of 'I know something you don't know' that the man is exuding.

Eliót, still grinning, reaches over and snags Alec's rather ornate powdered wig off of his head and puts it on, covering up his own simple pulled-back brown hair. He then stands and bows with all the grace of a lord, taking Sophie's hand and kissing it with a smug look.

"Beautiful Milady de Winter," he says in a higher, more posh, mincing voice than his habitual gruff tones, "I am Docteur Abernathé. Perhaps you have heard of me, even in England?"

It really shouldn't surprise them. The assassin turned thief is rough, wild, and has the bearing of a soldier, but he can carry himself like a nobleman when necessary.

"You!"

The twinkle in Eliót's blue eyes turns into a full smirk at Sophie's astonished and entirely put out exclamation of recognition.

"Me." He straightens and tosses the poorly mishandled wig back to its sputtering owner. "Here's how it _really_ happened," he says, and proceeds to tell his story.

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

Of course, he doesn't get very far before Sophie interrupts, saying that her accent of an Englishwoman speaking French doesn't sound at all like _that._

Eliót's tale is full of swashbuckling and swordfights with a dozen men at once. When he mentions how a visiting Moorish ambassador from the southern countries had suddenly taken ill and how the English lady had practically forced the patient onto him (here, Eliót glares at the unrepentant Sophie), Ardissón gives a self-satisfied snort of his own.

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

When Alec is finally bullied and threatened into smugly telling his story of how he had forged his invitation, faked illness so that he would be brought into closer proximity to the room holding the dagger in privacy, and created a diversion with a smoke bomb (a harmless device of his own invention), the rest of them reluctantly concede that he had indeed been the one to steal the famed dagger.

Except…

"Parquois?" Nathanael prompts.

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

"A maid? Why a maid?" Sophie asks, intrigued.

"Because no one notices the servants," the little thief explains plainly with a shrug, "They're invisible. You can do whatever you want, as long as you don't do anything that the nobs'll notice."

She continues her story of how she had noticed the signs of someone else trying to steal the dagger, and had swiftly and silently gotten into the locked room to steal it before anyone else did and ruined her plan.

Parquois explains with unconcealed irritation how she had discovered a big, fluffy, utterly unuseful brocade dress, complete with big, fluffy underwear and a big, fluffy, _dusty_ wig stuffed into a bag in the closet instead of the ropes and pulleys for escaping that they were supposed to be, and how in her rope-less climb down, she had accidentally dropped the dagger into a secret spy hole that led to goodness knows where.

At that, Nathanael makes a very small, very inconspicuous, and therefore very suspicious noise that immediately captures the attention of them all.

"Nathanael?"

"Here's how it _really_ happened."

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

* * *

AN: Yes, that's the end of this, which is not where the actual episode ends, but what else can I say but that the dagger basically dropped into Nate's hands out of the spy hole in the ceiling? Maybe while he was in the garderobe (toilet)?

* Carnwennan is the name of King Arthur's dagger. Yes, I know that it's the Dagger of Aqu'abi on the show, but I'm on a King Arthur kick right now (see _Merlin, The Librarians)_ \- with a side of _Musketeers_ (which is of course where the femme fatale Milady de Winter comes from) _._ Also, I might work it into some of my other one-shots for this collection. I kept the dagger part of it because Excalibur would be way too long for Sophie to hide in her skirts, although Parker would totally be able to manage it (because she's Parker, that's why). I also considered the Holy Grail, but decided against it. I mean, cup or shiny sharp thing? Mmmmm, yeah.

Here are all the names and descriptions because I'm sure it got a bit confusing:

 **Sophie Devereaux** = same as on the show; a spy, conwoman, and courtesan, impersonating Milady de Winter and a priest

 **Alec Hardison** = Alexandre "Alec" Ardissón; a forger and the son of a freed slave, who was raised by nuns, impersonating a visiting Moor ambassador

 **Parker** = Parquois; a thief from the Court of Miracles, impersonating a servant girl

 **Eliót Spencer** = Eliót Spenceur; a thief and former assassin/soldier, impersonating a doctor

 **Nate Ford** = Nathanael Fourde; worked for Blaquepoule (Blackpool) as something like a secretary

 **Blackpoole** = Blaquepoule; a corrupt moneylender and Nathanael's former boss

. . . . . .

And now, Anon Review Replies (I promise I'll try to not make this collection's anon review replies as...epic-ally massive as they have been in the past, lol):

 **GoHead** : Thanks for checking up on my page! I hope you enjoy these as much as you liked the others!

 **Guest** (who reviewed just as I was about to post this one! Lucky!): Welcome to Leverage! No really, I mean it, because you will find that this fandom is really nice and warm and friendly, as compared to some fandoms I've dipped and dabbled in. Plus, the fics are really great. :D I'm glad that you liked the first chapter of the collection. Nate is always "dad" to me. It's just so much funnier that way. I love the family dynamics of the team, so that's mostly what I write about. And yes, in my head, Eliot is an egg: hard on the outside, gooey and golden on the inside. *cringes at bad metaphor* :P Thanks for dropping me a review! Much appreciated!


	3. C is for Christmas (and Children)

AN: This one takes place in my "Sticky Little Fingers" 'verse. Yep, _that_ again. You can find a list of all of them in my profile, or you can go directly to the first story, "Sticky Little Fingers" (posted July 13, 2012), and then my birthday challenges "Twenty Three Chromosomes" and "Twenty Five Stories" to find the rest (marked "SLF"). **Ultrawoman** has written "Teenage Kicks" in this 'verse as well.

If you don't want to read all of them (though you really might want to in order to understand this fic, sorry), here's a really quick summary of the series: Future!verse. Nate and Sophie are married and have a daughter named Irene (just turned 10 years old in this one) who's a scary mix of Nate's mastermind-ness and Sophie's dramatic flair. Parker and Hardison have married as well and have five kids: Carrie (age 8), Frankie (6), Ruby (just turned 4 in this one), and the twins Flo and Gil (4 months). They're all named after currency and jewels and such (Carat, Franc, Ruble, Florin, and Guilder), courtesy of Mom, and have a penchant for high places and electrical devices. The newest member is Eliot's son, Michael (10), who lived with his mom until a few months ago, when she died. Eliot's having a hard time with this "single dad" thing. Oh, and they all live in the same apartment building. Just because. Also, in the _way_ future (not that it matters right now), Irene and Michael get married, and Eliot and Maggie are an item.

Summary: Christmas in the "Sticky Little Fingers" team-with-kids 'verse. Mostly Eliot and his son Michael, with a splash of terrified Hardison and insane Parker and the kids. A huge convoluted mess of humor, family, angst, and hurt-comfort.

This one is actually an extended version of the scene called "The Naughty or Nice Job" in "The Jack O'Lantern Job, Part 1" from "Twenty Five Stories," but you definitely don't need to read that one to understand this.

* * *

 **C is for Christmas (and Children)**

"They what?" Eliot takes the phone out from being sandwiched between his ear and shoulder where he had put it while he was cooking dinner early (before dawn, really) on Christmas morning (gotta start early, you know, what with over a dozen people to feed, even if he has been prepping for the last couple of days).

"What're ya talkin' about, Hardison?" he asks, pressing the phone directly against his ear so he that can hear better. Because what he thinks he has just heard isn't really enough to warrant the level of panic that Hardison is currently exuding.

" _They caught me putting the presents under the tree,"_ Hardison whispers fearfully at the other end of the phone, sounding, yes, sounding quite a bit like he's been chased into a dark, scary alleyway with nowhere else to go, with Jason Voorhees right behind him holding a dripping, gory machete. Or, alternately, like Parker and the kids have gotten it into their heads to drag him on a "family vacation" to France, just so that they can get a little culture in by jumping off the top of the Eiffel Tower. Together, as a family.

Eliot snorts. "Yeah? So?" He puts the phone on speaker so that he can chop onions while his ten-year-old son Michael (who, great kid that he is, has gotten up early to help his dad out) cuts up vegetables for the salad next to him.

" _The ones from Santa?"_ Hardison whimpers, squeaking a little in his fear. Eliot can almost see him quaking in his Incredible Hulk house slippers.

He shoots his son a glance. Luckily, Michael, who has been living with him for the last few months since his mother died, has already informed Eliot that he already knows the truth about Santa (and the Easter Bunny, Tooth Fairy, and "all that"), so continuing this conversation won't scar the kid for life or anything. Or maybe it will, since they're talking about the Parker-Hardison family here.

"All kids gotta find out sometime, Hardison," Eliot says, while he sneaks another look at Michael. Poor kid's gone through a lot, with his mother's illness and death, and having to move in with a father he'd never even met. Eliot finds himself wishing that Michael could have a little bit of the magic and innocence in his life that the hacker and thief's five kids have (Nate and Sophie's daughter, Irene, too). In fact, with that in mind, he has already put presents under the tree for him "from Santa," despite what Michael has told him.

But back to the problem at hand.

" _Parker never found out, not really, until last night,"_ Hardison moans. _"She still believes – believed – in him! Oh, sweet mother of mercy, what the hell am I gonna do, Eliot?!"_ he sobs hysterically into the phone. _"They're gonna kill me!"_

Oh. Well. Parker. Now, _that's_ a different story.

Next to him, Michael has stopped pretending not to listen and instead has a slightly confused, incredulous expression.

"Aunt Parker believes in Santa?" he asks Eliot, disbelief etched across his face. Eliot hears the _'But she's a grown-up'_ loud and clear.

Eliot nods. "Long story," he says, shrugging.

" _I told her I was helping Santa, like I'm his special secret helper elf. I think she believed me,"_ Hardison mumbles, his voice muffled, as if talking into a pillow.

Eliot sighs. "Where are you now, Hardison?" he asks, just to see how crazy this has gotten.

" _Um, somewhere I can't be tracked?"_ is all the answer he gets.

"So you mean to tell me that you're holed up in some shitty motel somewhere on Christmas morning?" Eliot interprets. "Away from your family?"

" _Uh, yes?"_

"Get your ass back home right now. I don't got time for this," Eliot growls for extra measure. It occurs to him much later that he's pretty much forgotten about censoring his language in front of his son. Dammit. "I got the ham an' bird to prep, an' then there's the potatoes, and the green beans, and- and' not to mention dessert! Dammit, Hardison! I got no time for this!"

" _But Eliot- "_

"Home. Now. An' if you're not back in twenty minutes, I'm tellin' 'em about the Tooth Fairy."

There's a horrible gasping, choking sound over the other end of the line. _"You wouldn't. You wouldn't do that to me, your brother, would you?"_ Hardison moans, _"Eliot, man! Why would you do that to me?"_

"Hardison. Ass. Home. Now." He hangs up.

And looks up to find Michael staring at him like he's the one who's crazy.

"What's wrong?"

Michael blinks a few times, closes his jaw with a snap, and shakes his head. "Nothing."

Eliot huffs. "Yeah, I know, I know. We're the craziest people you've ever met, right? I know. I thought they were all insane at first, but then, well." He breaks off, not really knowing how to finish that.

"But then you found out that they're not crazy?" Michael asks, sounding a little hopeful.

Eliot throws his head back and laughs. "Aw, kid. No, they're crazy alright. An' so am I, I guess. According to them, anyway. But that's family for ya. We might be crazier than most, but that don't even compare to how much we care about each other. We'd do anything for each other. An' that's what counts, in the end."

Michael gives him a small, wistful smile. "I get that. I guess. They are crazy, but like you said, they're…I can tell that they really love each other. I mean. If Uncle Hardison's been putting presents from Santa under the tree for Aunt Parker and their kids all the time they've been married, then I guess he must really love them. Even if he's scared that she's gonna kill him."

Huh. "Yeah, I guess so," Eliot says softly, smiling at his son, proud of him for being able to see that about people he's only known for a few months. "They do love each other a lot, even if it's hard to believe sometimes, especially when they're actin' like this."

Michael nods, hiding his face with that long mop of hair that he insists on wearing (not that Eliot can be critical without being hypocritical). "You, too," he says, "you love all of them a lot, even when you're annoyed with them."

Eliot's eyebrows lift in surprise. He chuckles. "I guess you're right there, too, son," he says, smiling, and claps the kid's shoulder and ruffles his hair. "Took a good long time for us all to admit it, but yeah, we do. An' we all love you," he says quietly, serious about wanting his son to know this. That he loves him, and that he's got a whole big crazy extended family who loves him.

Michael turns bright red and hides behind his hair again. "Not sure I'm crazy enough to fit in," he mumbles, embarrassed.

Eliot laughs. "Nah, some of the stuff you let those other kids talk ya into? No, you're one of us alright," making Michael turn even redder with the warm fuzziness that he gets inside when he thinks about belonging with this huge group of loud, bustling, _caring_ people who think nothing of adding him to their group, just because he's Eliot's kid.

Carrie and Frankie, who are just as crazy as their parents, and little Ruby, who had suddenly and without warning gone from babylike burbling to complete (albeit lisping) sentences, shocking everyone. And the babies Flo and Gil, who are still too little to be labeled as crazy, but who will no doubt grow up to be just as wonderfully insane as the rest. And then there's Irene. Michael's still not too sure what to think about her, but he knows that for all the Hardisons' outward insanity, Irene's really the one to watch out for out of the group of kids, and not just because she's the oldest of them. Sure, it's easy to miss it when she's acting bratty and spoiled, but when she's plotting one of their "cons," she's the one who keeps them all together.

And that's just the kids. The grown-ups tend to treat him like he's going to break, which is why he tends to prefer being alone or playing with (read: babysitting) the other kids, who pretty much just want piggy-back rides from him (except for the older girls, of course). Aunt Parker and Uncle Hardison are crazy, as mentioned, but nice. Aunt Sophie keeps hugging him and tutting over him and smothering him with kisses and presents, and Uncle Nate balances things out by remaining aloof, while somehow conveying that he's available if Michael ever needs to talk. And his dad…

His dad. Michael can tell that he tries really hard to be a good dad to him, and that that's more than a lot of kids get. And he's good, most of the time. He sometimes visibly flounders, though, but then again, Michael's not used to _having_ a dad, either. And most of the time, it's…good. Like now.

He leans into his dad's side when the muscled hand comes down to ruffle his hair again and lingers warmly at the back of his neck. He tries really hard not to think about how his mom used to play with his hair and kiss the top of his head. But evidently, he doesn't try hard enough because the warm hand moves away from his neck to wrap around his shoulder, and Michael finds himself leaning into a hug with his face pressed up against his dad's chest, struggling to keep his breathing even and his eyes dry.

It's the soft kiss that's dropped onto the top of his head that does it.

God, he misses his mom. This is the first Christmas that they won't be together, and god. She's dead. She's dead, and-

Hiccups and sobs pour out of him into his dad's shirt, and Dad just stands there, solid and warm, as if telling him – showing him – that he's not gonna go anywhere. And god, he just feels _guilty_ about being _happy_ that these people love him, when she's not here, and then his dad's telling him that it's okay, everything's okay, when it's really not because Mom's not here, and it is _not_ okay!

Dad takes it silently and solidly when Michael lashes out, cheeks red and tears streaming down his face. He feels the muscles under his fists brace against each punch that he gives, until he's done, and collapses into the strong arms that are suddenly there, enveloping him in a warm embrace.

They're still sitting there, on the hard, cold tile floor, when Hardison bursts in, scrambling to lock and double-lock and triple-bolt Eliot's door. "I made it!" he cries, and kisses the door dramatically in thanks. He slides down to sit on the floor. "Can I stay here until it all blows over?" he pleads.

And then he notices Michael's position practically sitting in Eliot's lap on the floor. Quick dark eyes take in the blotchy, wet face that's halfway turned into Eliot's shoulder and widen. "Oh. Ah. I'll just be at Nate's then," he says as delicately as he can and stands up to unbolt and unlock the door so he that can leave and give them the privacy that they obviously need.

"No," Michael says, sniffing. "'S okay. I'm done now," he whispers and stands up on wobbly legs, wiping his face with his shirt. He runs off to the bathroom, avoiding Hardison's gaze.

Eliot sighs tiredly and runs his hand through his hair.

Hardison winces. "Sorry. I didn't know- "

"No, you didn't know," Eliot hisses, more frustrated with himself than angry at Hardison but not knowing how to express that other than by hitting something. "My son has just lost the only family he's ever known, and here you are runnin' away from yours. It's Christmas, for godssakes. Now, I know that I don't worship Christmas like y'all do, but even I know that you shouldn't be fighting on Christmas. It just ain't right. Just." He sighs again, weary. "Just go home and make up with your wife and kids. Explain things to them. Just." He stops, wanting to just _punch_ something. "Someone oughta be happy this Christmas," he finishes and sits himself down heavily in a chair, leaning his crossed arms on the table in front of him. _"Christ."_

Hardison walks over softly. "You alright?" he says gently, reaching out to squeeze a well-muscled bicep.

Eliot's head falls forward onto his arms. "This just might be the hardest thing I've ever done," he grumbles. "Don't know what I'm doin' wrong, just that I am, poor kid."

Hardison pulls up a chair and sits down next to him. "You are doin' it right. It's like you said. His mom just died, and it's his first Christmas without her. Of course he's upset. It's only been a few months. You love the stuffin' outta that kid, and he knows it. You just gotta give him time. Bein' a parent's the hardest job in the world, but it's also the easiest, 'cause it's just so damn easy to love your kids."

"We were doin' okay. Today, I mean," Eliot huffs, still staring at the table. "We were actually jokin' around. And then we started talkin' about you guys and ya know, family, and- and lo- and stuff, and I told him that I, you know, love him, and he just fell apart on me."

"I'd cry, too, if a big hairy buff dude told me he loves me," Hardison quips lightly, dodging the soft punch that comes his way. "Nah," he says, "You're doin' alright by him. Trust me on this. I had a lotta foster parents growin' up, and trust me when I tell ya you're doin' alright. Better than most. Okay?"

Eliot straightens and sits back in his chair, groaning. "Yeah. Thanks."

They sit there for a few minutes in the comfortable silence that results only from long years of friendship, brothership.

"You should go," Eliot says after a while.

Hardison stretches. "Yeah, I guess so. He's probably waitin' for me to leave."

"Not that," Eliot says, glancing _up._ "That."

"Oh," Hardison says, understanding his meaning, and gets ready to flee "Later then. _Aaah!"_ he shrieks as a curly head of dark hair swings down from the air vent.

"Found him!" Frankie Hardison screams shrilly, hanging from the ceiling upside-down. "I found Daddy!"

" _Get him!"_ shouts Carrie's voice from further inside the vent.

" _Gwinch!"_ cries Ruby. _"Scwoode!"_

" _Hardison!"_ growls Mama, the warning bellow of doom echoing around the air vents of the entire apartment complex.

"Shit, they found me," the hacker whispers. Then he shakes himself. "I can do this. I can- " _gulp_ "-explain things. Yeah. Totally can. Yes. I will explain things to the pitchfork-wielding mob. Eliot," he says, facing the hitter, who has just caught little Ruby from her graceful somersault out of the ceiling, "I want my gravestone to say, 'He tried.'"

"It'll say 'He ruined Christmas!' That's what it'll say," says Parker, dropping down from the ceiling like a blonde ponytailed, reindeer antlered, Christmas sweatered panther. A carnivorous panther, with big, sharp teeth and two babies strapped to her torso.

Eliot plops the snarling Ruby into her trembling father's arms, and slips away into the hallway to Michael's room.

"You okay, kid?" he says, closing the door behind him and making his way to the bed, where Michael's lying with his face pressed into his pillow.

The thin shoulders hitch up in a shrug.

Eliot sits down and rubs Michael's back. "We don't have to go out today if you don't want to," he says gently.

The muscles under his hand tense for a moment, then relax as Michael lets a long breath out.

"But that means," Michael hiccups, finally turning over and sitting up, "that means that I don't get to open my presents." His voice is stuffed up and breaking with every other word, and he keeps his eyes on his knees, but Eliot feels that warm shiver of pride pass through him at his words and the meaning behind them: _'Yeah, Dad, I can take this. I can do this.'_ What a brave, tough kid he's got.

He can't help it, he really can't, so he reaches over and grabs the kid, _his_ kid, the bravest kid he knows, in the tightest hug he can give him. He's just so proud of Michael's courage in facing something so painful as a loved one's death head on, willingly going into an environment that is sure to trigger all sorts of painful memories, that he can't voice it. He just hugs him harder, putting all the force of his pride and love into it. He's always been more of a man of action than words, and this is easier. Difficult as hell, but yet oh-so-easy.

Smaller fists clutch desperately at his shirt, and the fabric at his chest gets a little wet again, but this time there are no sobs, no heart-wrenching, convulsing shudders, and finally, the brown messy head nods and pulls away. _Thanks_ , says the hand that brushes Eliot's wrist. _Thanks, Dad._

Then Frankie bursts in, shouting Eliot's name at the top of his lungs. "Uncle El-yut, Uncle El-yut! Guess what? Guess what?!" He's practically vibrating with excitement. "Guess what?!"

"What, buddy?" Eliot asks, standing, and blocking Frankie's view of Michael to give him time to compose himself.

"Daddy's part of a top secret orgun'zashun ta help Santa hand out presents ta people who bin good all year, an'-" He launches into an explanation that quite obviously came out of Hardison's very creatively bullshitting mouth. "An' then Mommy said why didn't Santa axe her ta be in the orgun'zashun, an' he said only daddies can be in it, an' are you in it, Uncle Eliot? 'Cuz you're Mikey's daddy, an' he's bin real good."

Big brown eyes look up at Eliot with the most earnest, eager expression ever, and god, it's those eyes, and that hair, and that face.

"Uhhh," is all that comes out of his mouth, however, before Michael's pushing past him.

"He wouldn't tell me, though, would he," Michael says with a smirk that he just can't be feeling on his tearstained face, "if it's such a top secret organization? You just can't tell _normal_ kids that."

Frankie screws his face up to think. "But you're not normal!" he rationalizes, "You're one of us. And we're special." He looks up at Michael with a blinding grin on his face. There. Problem solved.

"Well, I'm too old for presents from Santa anyway," Michael says, as if trying to beat the questions that are sure to arise when there aren't presents for him from Santa under the tree (or so he thinks).

"No, you're not! Mommy's way older'n you an' she still gets presents!" Frankie declares.

Michael is evidently lost for a suitable reply, so Eliot decides to cut in and pay him back by rescuing him in his turn. "Well, since your dad already spilled the beans, I guess I gotta tell you boys," he says, affecting an expression as if a confession's being pressed out of him, "I am in that organization. I'm sorry I didn't tell you, but I just got sworn into it myself. I never even knew about it!"

He chuckles inwardly at the _look_ on Michael's face. "So why don't we all go an' see what Santa got you," he says, herding both boys out the door and into the living room, where Hardison is sitting in an armchair with Parker and his girls all sitting on him, practically purring in contentment. Hardison tilts his head back and grins at Eliot, giving him a knowing, desperate nod that also says, _"Please don't mess this up! Just play along, brah!"_

"So," Eliot announces, "I had to 'fess up about bein' in that secret Santa organization," he says, meeting Hardison's eye and winking – hey, it's Christmas. Why not?

"Presents!" Frankie interrupts, hopping from foot to foot and clapping his hands in his overexcitement. "Presents! Presents!"

And with that, they're all off to Nate and Sophie's to rouse them from their beds (getting Aunt Maggie on the way from the guest apartment that is reserved for when she visits), and before they know it, they're all gathered around the tree at the Hardison-Parkers.

The tree. It's a Christmas fanatic's dream come true. It has lights and all sorts of ornaments and fake snow that falls down from the special machine mounted on the ceiling, and a little carved stone angel on the top of it (courtesy of Father Paul), and- Yes, it is quite a tree.

Nate hates it. Bah. Humbug. It's too early for this.

As always, he grumbles and grunts his way to _his_ armchair and pointedly _doesn't_ drink the coffee that Parker brings him because it's sure to be laced with peppermint and chocolate, with little actual coffee in it. He glowers down at all the curly little heads gathered around the presents under the tree… _All_ the little heads, especially the new one that hangs back a little shyly, unsure of where to sit and what to do and what to say. He doesn't miss the reddened eyes, or the way the boy sniffles a bit when he thinks no one's watching. He doesn't miss the overprotective, worried air that Eliot has adopted over the kid, nor the nervousness that makes the hitter's knee jog up and down when the "Santa" presents are handed around.

Carrie, Frankie, Ruby, and of course, Parker, all tear off the wrapping paper of their respective gifts with a manic, gleeful frenzy that makes Hardison grin widely to see. Irene is slightly more reserved, and manages to get the gilt paper off in one piece. She smiles and poses dutifully for the camera that Sophie has glued to her hand.

And the boy. Michael. Eliot's son. He holds the colorful box in his hand and glances up at his father, frowning a little. An eyebrow rises in a familiar sarcastic expression. ' _Santa?'_ Eliot smiles and shrugs, looking a little sheepish. He nods, ' _go on_.' The paper peels off slowly and carefully.

The din of the hacker-thief spawn showing off their new gadgets to their adoring (and unanimously "adorable") Aunt Maggie distracts Nate for a moment, drawing an amused, fond smile from him that he immediately hides in the coffee mug that had replaced Parker's garishly festive one. His eyes drift over to his daughter, who is trying to seem grown-up (after all, she _is_ ten now) by not seeming _too_ excited about all this (but utterly failing).

"It's so cool!" Frankie shouts into his older sister's ear, and Ruby hits his backside repeatedly with her new stuffed Dalek while tugging on Carrie's hair.

"Frankie! Ruby!" Carrie yells, and gets her revenge by hitting them both, _a la_ Uncle Eliot.

Irene rolls her eyes a bit as if saying, _'Honestly,'_ but says nothing because she has her Santa presents, too (just to keep up the charade, of course). She's not going to be the one who ruins Christmas for the Hardison-Parkers, not if she can help it. It's really too much trouble to deal with all their whining. It's for everyone's peace of mind. Honest.

And well, if that shy smile Michael sends his dad over the new DVD set of classic cowboy films from "Santa" is anything to go by, it seems like Uncle Eliot will be doing this again next year. Just to see that smile (which is rather handsome, not that Irene would admit it to anyone, not even to herself).

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

* * *

AN: What is this? This wasn't supposed to happen when I started writing this! It was supposed to be Hardison getting chased by the horde because they caught him being Santa. Not this angst-fest in the middle there, and certainly not this POV-shifting monster. Argh. Evidently, my writing skills are quite a bit rusty after not being used all year. And you know what? When I wrote "Twenty Three Chromosomes," I hadn't even thought of inventing Michael until people wanted Eliot to have a kid, like halfway through the collection. But here he is, starring in yet another SLF fic.

Anyway, here are the kids' ages, just so you can picture them in your minds.

Michael Roberts-Spencer (Eliot's son): 10

Irene Ford (Nate & Sophie's daughter): just turned 10

Carat "Carrie" Hardison (Parker & Hardison's daughter): 8

Franc "Frankie" Hardison (Parker & Hardison's son): 6

Ruble "Ruby" Hardison (Parker & Hardison's daughter): just turned 4

Florin "Flo" and Guilder "Gil" Hardison (Parker & Hardison's boy/girl twins): 4 months


	4. D is for Dammit, Hardison!

Summary: Eliot says it every time Hardison does something stupid or annoying. It becomes something of a ritual, or a way of making sure that everything's okay.

* * *

 **D is for Dammit, Hardison!**

The first time he says it, it's out of real frustration at the sheer _stupidity_ of this kid.

"Dammit, Hardison!"

Seriously, doesn't he know anything about how real life works outside of his stupid computer games?

Gradually, it becomes something he says whenever he's just simply annoyed with him.

"Dammit, Hardison! Turn that thing off!"

"Dammit, Hardison! Get the hell outta my kitchen! An' take your damn doohickey with ya!"

And when the kid's done something dangerous and Eliot's heart's pounding _so_ hard –

"Dammit, Hardison! Don't ever do that again!"

It's like having a hyperactive and slightly neurotic younger brother that Eliot has to keep his eye on all the time.

"Don't you dare spill that– Dammit, Hardison!"

Sometimes, he swears, the kid does it on purpose, just to make him say it.

(And he obliges, always.)

"Dammit, Hardison!"

Eventually, it becomes something of a ritual, or a way of making sure that everything's okay.

"Eliot?"

 _Rustling, then violent coughing._ "Dammit, Hardison!"

"Eh, he's okay."

"I'm gonna kill ya when I get back, Hardison!" _Coughing._

Until the day comes when they just can't joke and laugh it off anymore.

"Eliot?"

The blood seeps through Eliot's fingers, and the skin that is usually so dark is clammy and ashy gray.

It's bad. It's so, so bad.

"Dammit, Hardison! Stay with me, okay? Just stay with me."

He hasn't felt this panicked about losing one of his brothers in years, mostly because he hasn't been on a team other than this one in so long, hasn't had people he cares about like this in so long…

"'S gonna be okay, Eliot."

Dammit, Hardison. He's not supposed to be the one comforting him. It's _Eliot's_ job to take care of everyone.

"Stay awake. You gotta stay with me. Dammit, Hardison! Just for once, listen to me, ya damn, stupid kid!"

And the blood keeps coming…

"I'm not a kid anymore, El'ot." White teeth stained crimson grin up at him. "'S okay. 'S gonna be okay." A dark, sticky hand covers his – cold, so cold – and squeezes.

"Dammit, Hardison."

Whispered, just whispered, because he can't seem to find his voice, or anything other to say than that.

" _Dammit."_

The hand squeezes again. "'S okay. You did good. An' thanks. For ev'rythin'."

Anger. Fiery anger to replace the cold, hard _lump_ lying heavy in his stomach. "Shut up, Hardison. Don't you go talkin' like that."

Something hot and wet streams down his cheeks. He wonders briefly if it's blood, blood, hot and salty, leaking out of his eyes.

"Dammit, Eliot. Lemme go. You gotta lemme go."

"Dammit, Hardison," he whispers, watching through blurring eyes as the figure in his arms goes limp.

"Dammit, dammit Hardison."

And there's no answer. No smart-alecky response. Nothing.

. . . . . . . . .

* * *

AN: Um, ouch? Sorry 'bout that ending there. Should I have included a warning? *ducks*


	5. E is for Excalibur

Summary: A "friendly" all-dialogue discussion on whether mythical objects are real or not. Slight crossover with various fandoms ( _Harry Potter, The Librarians, Discworld_ ).

AN: Sorry about yesterday's chapter. Here's some empty humor to even things up! I'll get to replying to the reviews from yesterday soon. I got caught up in watching a movie with my parents. :)

* * *

 **E is for Excalibur**

"Cinderella's glass slipper."

"No way. I mean, think about it. Physically impossible. Poor girl'd be pickin' glass outta her feet for weeks."

"That's why the original was a _fur_ slipper, not glass."

"Whaa?"

"' _Pantoufle de vair,'_ v-a-i-r, is French for 'fur slipper,' and _'pantoufle de verre,'_ v-e-r-r-e, is 'glass slipper.' Simple mistranslation."

"Why would she be wearin' a fur slipper?"

"Fur makes less sound than glass when you're trying to sneak around."

"Err…"

"Fur makes more sense than glass, don't it? Warmer, at least. More flexible. Practical."

"So real?"

"Maybe."

"Excalibur. The most famous sword in the world."

"Real."

"Myth."

"Can't it be both?"

"No, it can't be both. They're mutually exclusive."

"Are not."

"Are too."

"Are not."

"Are too."

"Are- Whatever. Anyway, it's real. My cousin's seen it." _So there._

"Did not."

"Too."

"Not."

"The both of you, will you please calm down and settle this like adults?"

"It's in the Library. I saw it when I went to steal Pandora's Box. By the way, his name's Cal."

"Pandora's Box?"

"The sword has a nickname? Shouldn't it be in a lake, anyway? Lady of the Lake and so on?"

"What library? Books belong in the library, not magical swords."

"Ha! My cousin Jakey works there!"

"So…real."

"And I guess Pandora's Box is real, too."

"Mm-hm."

"Sorting Hat."

"What's that?"

"What's that? _What's that?!_ Have you never heard of Harry Potter, you Neanderthal?"

"Neanderthal?!"

"Real."

"Yes, you cavema- Whachu say, Parker?"

"I said it's real."

"You been holdin' out on me babe?"

"Hm? Ooh, Death's scythe."

"Real!"

"No way am I believin' in the anthropomorphic personification of a biological event."

"We all die, don't we? And Death is a figure that comes up in most, if not all, cultures. The scythe isn't necessarily for every belief, but there is usually something that severs the connection between the soul and the body when we die, or that symbolizes the ending of life."

"This is getting a little morbid, isn't it, Nate?"

"So…real?"

"No way."

"VERY REAL, UNFORTUNATELY."

"…"

"Who said that?"

"Tell me that was you, Sophie? Eliot? Someone with a bad sense of humor?"

"SURELY IT WASN'T THAT BAD. SORRY. I'LL JUST GO BACK TO WORK THEN. COME ALONG, BINKY."

"…"

"Um…The Philosopher's Stone?"

"Isn't that used to keep you from dying?"

"Yeah. Turns stuff to gold, too."

"Oh. Yeah. That would be nice."

"What's wrong with everyone?...Ohh, we're pretending someone wasn't just in here TALKING LIKE THIS."

"Parker!"

"So…that was real, huh?"

"No. Not real."

"Very not real."

"Moving on…"

. . . . . . . .

* * *

References:

Cinderella's fur slipper: Something I've heard before about the fairy tale. No idea if it's true.

Excalibur/Cal/Library/"Jakey": _The Librarian_ and _The Librarians_. Excalibur, or "Cal," plays a small part in the TV movies, and a larger part in the TV series. The Library is where historical/magical objects are kept. Cousin "Jakey" is supposed to be Jacob Stone, and is played by Christian Kane, who also plays Eliot.

Sorting Hat and Philosopher's Stone: Both show up in _Harry Potter_ (Sorcerer's Stone in the American version). The Philosopher's stone actually comes from legends.

Death and TALKING LIKE THIS: Reference to Death from the _Discworld_ series. He's…kind of odd and quirky and absolutely lovable. He is perpetually interested in and confused by humans. His horse is named Binky.


	6. F is for Fig Leaf

Summary: Parker brings back souvenirs from the Vatican Museum.

* * *

 **F is for Fig Leaf**

Eliot enters the office and, as is his habit, takes a quick, assessing look around to check the room for danger.

And double-takes on the pile of rubble on the coffee table in front of the extra-large TV screens, which are set to a news channel, some sci-fi movie with invading aliens, and cartoons.

He cautiously walks closer to the strange, dusty heap, keeping extra alert for the tripwires, floor switches, and beeping that might signal a bomb. In the background, a spaceship blows up New York City (it's always NYC, LA, Tokyo, London, or Paris with these movies, with maybe a side of an exploding Taj Mahal), Bugs Bunny sings Rossini while shaving Elmer Fudd, and a news anchor reports on some vandalism of antique art at the Vatican.

He edges closer, and sees –

Hold up.

 _What?!_

Eliot scrunches up his face, perplexed, and takes a pen out of his pocket to poke at the pile. Stupid, he knows, but he has a feeling that this pile of what looks to be marble, plaster, and bronze leaves is harmless, if not rather puzzling.

He gives the top leaf a light jab, and it topples down the heap with a rattle and slides to the bottom of the hill onto the table with a small puff of dust.

"Parker!" he shouts. "What the hell is this?!"

Then he hears it.

"… _priceless nude statues and paintings with exposed male genitalia were covered up with fig leaves or removed during the middle ages, from the papal reign of Pope Paul IV to the…"_

He quickly grabs the remote and turns down _"Kill the waaabbit"_ and Yankee Stadium exploding, and turns up the news channel.

" _Among the affected artwork was Michelangelo's_ The Last Judgement _, which had the offending areas painted over with shrubbery and drapery. Another was the ancient Greek statue,_ Hercules of the Theatre of Pompey _, to which a bronze fig leaf was attached. However, as you can now see…"_

The camera pans out and away from the reporter, and onto the statue, which is sporting…

And apple. A bright, red, shiny apple, which looks to be floating in midair in front of where the modesty-giving fig leaf ought to be.

Eliot drops his face into his hand and groans. _"Parker."_

. . . . . . . . . . . .

It turns out that not only had Parker stolen all the fig leaves from the statues at the Vatican Museum, she had also replaced each of them with a proportionately-sized apple, all very shiny and very red. In addition, she had stuck a bright red apple sticker (acid-free, of course) onto each of the fig leaves in previously altered paintings.

"But _why_ , Parker?" is an often-heard question at headquarters (usually followed by "Never mind. It's Parker"), but that day, it is repeated many times over.

It turns out that she had taken one of Sophie's lectures about metaphorical forbidden fruit and sin as an example of temptation when talking about a con last week much too literally.

(Upon learning this, a collective "Sophie!" is heard.)

"I heard they actually took _off_ what was _supposed_ to be there before they even put the leaves on," Hardison shudders, "True or false?"

Parker bites into an extra-crunchy apple, unaware of the flinches by the three men around her. "Huh?"

"I mean, is there a pile of marble peni-"

Eliot waves his arms. "Whoa, just stop. Stop right there." He jabs a finger at the hacker. "Just no, Hardison. No."

"I need to know, man," Hardison protests, "Don't say you've never wondered if they castrated those poor dudes."

" _Hardison!"_

Nate rubs his head and thinks once again that God must be a sadistic bastard for making him suffer through this. He wonders if they'll ever canonize him for being such a martyr. He deserves it…doesn't he? Doesn't he?!

. . . . . . . . . . . .

* * *

AN: I don't know either. This just happened. I am so sorry.

That said, I tried to a little bit of googling about these fig leaves and what specific artwork has them and such. I'm no expert, though, so if anything is wrong, just let me know. And the answer to Hardison's question is true, at least that I could see in pictures.


	7. G is for Gringotts

AN: Uh, yeah. I kind of got into a _Harry Potter_ movie and fanfic kick while I was planning this collection, so this happened. Because if the _Leverage_ team lived in that world, I think they would try to break in. I don't really remember a whole lot about the actual books, since it's been like, ten years since I read them, but pretend any mistakes are because the _Leverage_ guys are American. Yeah. *shifty eyes* I tried to make them British, but the Cockney and Irish and etc. accents weren't working for me. Bloody hell, that's wicked. (Sorry, just wanted to say that, a la Ron. Makes no sense whatsoever in this context. Blimey. *giggles*)

Summary: The _Leverage_ team plans to break into Gringotts Wizarding Bank. Crossover with the _Harry Potter_ universe.

* * *

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

 **G is for Gringotts**

"Gringotts?!"

"Yes."

" _Gringotts?!"_ Hardison repeats incredulously, his voice going an octave higher than normal.

"Yes," Nate says in the same tone and sips Firewhiskey from his glass. Finding it near-empty, he gives his wand a lazy swish to levitate the bottle over while Sophie looks on disapprovingly.

"Let me get this straight. You want _us_ to break into Gringotts, _the_ Gringotts, the most secure wizarding bank in the world?" Hardison says shrilly. His voice reaches close to glass-shattering levels. "Just so we can get the mark caught redhanded? Are you kidding?"

"Kidding? No." The ex-Auror sips from his glass and examines its contents as if they are more interesting than the notion of _breaking into Gringotts._ "Dead serious."

"Dead is right!" Hardison screeches. "'Cause I'mma tell you now, no one, _no one_ steals from Gringotts and gets out in one piece. A dozen, hundred pieces, maybe, or a pile of ashes, but no one's done it!"

"1998," Parker begins, but is cut off by Hardison.

"By Harry Potter!" he exclaims, standing up in his zeal and waving his arms around, " _The_ Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. Who defeated You-Know-Who! It's one thing for him, but he's…he's Harry Potter! Of course _he's_ done it! He's even survived the Killing Curse – twice!"

"Sophie," Nate interrupts the sputtering Muggle-born genius of a wizard, "Any ideas?"

"I could walk in as Malfoy," Sophie, a Metamorphmagus, says, "but those additional security spells they put in after the break-in Potter and the others made with Polyjuice Potion would make it impossible for even me to actually get in. Unless Hardison…" She trails off and gives the still-ranting wizard a meaningful glance that he completely misses. She sighs and rubs her forehead delicately and deliberately in an all-suffering manner.

"How about this?" Parker says, biting the end of her quill. She outlines a risky plan involving somersaulting out of the Gringotts carts, blowing up some walls, and…Honestly, Hardison loses track after the jumping out of the Gringotts carts part.

"I ain't jumpin' out of one of those things!" he says, shaking his head, "No way! Why are we considering this? This is nuts!"

"You're just there for the spell-breaking, anyway," Parker sniffs in a way that rankles Hardison because he happens to be very proud of his perfect N.E.W.T. scores, thank you very much.

"Which is important," Nate cuts in before the wizard can explode again. "Parker, we'd need tweak your plan a bit."

"But what about the dragons?" Hardison says, "Ain't no spells can get past one of _those_ dragons."

"Oh, them," Parker says, completely nonchalant, "I can talk to them. They'll cooperate."

The others stare.

"What?" she says, looking around, "What did I say?"

"You speak _Dragon?"_ Eliot says with one eyebrow arched up way high.

"Oh yeahhh," Parker shrugs, "Didn't I tell you? I was raised by a colony of dragons."

"Wait, what?" Hardison says, "What happened to the leprechauns?"

"Them, too," Parker says, finding a Galleon in Hardison's pocket and flipping it, "And the fairies, of course. Changeling."

There is stunned blinking all around.

"Right," Eliot says, shaking his head _(crazy)_. "So. Parker talks to dragons. That's just great."

"It is?" Parker says, not catching the sarcasm in his voice. "Oh, okay."

" _Okay,"_ Nate says, and outlines _his_ much less crazy version of Parker's plan. "What do you think?"

"Mm, we should probably do this on Monday," Sophie says thoughtfully, morphing her hair into blonde ringlets and changing the color of her nails, "The bank's always busiest on Monday, and they won't be as vigilant about checking us out."

"Can't do next week," Eliot says with a grimace, "Full moon."

"Right," Hardison says, "You gotta go do that howly thing, huh? _A-woooo!"_ He mimics a werewolf's howl, badly, and ignores the dangerous growl that Eliot throws his way to show him that he is _not amused._

"Week after, then?" Nate says, clearing his throat to tell the two younger men to please, settle down and act like gentlewizards.

"'Kay," Parker says, and nibbles at a Cauldron Cake from Hardison's stash.

Eliot shrugs and stretches. His joints pop slightly, like they always do the week before the full moon. "Sure."

Sophie smirks at him. "Yes, that seems to be the best…time of the month." Eliot curls his lip in a snarl at her. Definitely _not amused._

"Fine, I'm in," Hardison says reluctantly, heaving huge sighs and muttering about how everyone takes him for granted, and how it may all be magic, but magic is still hard work, y'alls. An' what about the goblins, huh? Cain't nobody open a vault 'cept goblins, not that he wants to mention it just in case Parker pops up and says that she's part goblin.

'Cause that would be disturbing.

Nate grunts, stands, and turns on his heel, Apparating out of his apartment to someplace private that isn't overrun with bickering magical thieves. Like maybe the bar downstairs.

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

* * *

AN: _Obliviate?_ Heh. *hides*

Parker and dragons/leprechauns/fairies – All of them are creatures known for liking/loving shiny things, especially gold. I thought it would fit her. I'm not sure how it's actually possible, but a lot of things (like gaping plotholes) can be explained away by "It's Parker."

Sophie the Metamorphmagus (like Nymphadora Tonks) – Obvious. Right? She was going to be ½ succubus, but I decided that I like Metamorphmagus better.

Nate the ex-Auror – The Aurors are part of the Ministry, but I thought that the job description was…close enough. Maybe the Department of Something-or-other Magical Artefacts should have been better, but I like the sound of 'Auror' better.

Hardison the wizard genius – He was a little difficult, since he's so much into technology in canon, but I thought that making him a genius spell-caster would be fun.

Eliot the werewolf – Duh. Wahya, anyone? Except he's definitely not a Native American werewolf, so there will be no imprinting on babies. Also, vampires don't sparkle.


	8. H is for Hack

Summary: Baby Carrie Hardison figures out how to hack. "Sticky Little Fingers" 'verse.

AN: Like I said before, you can find the rest of the "Sticky Little Fingers" stories on my profile. This one doesn't really require you to read any of them, though.

* * *

 **H is for Hack**

Grocery shopping is something that Eliot Spencer would never let Parker do by herself. After all, she has a family now – an annoying hacker of a husband and a little baby girl who is beautiful, adorable, amazing, wonderful, cute, and-

Anyway, a baby girl who has her Uncle Eliot wrapped (and tied up in knots with a padlock around the whole shebang) around her little finger.

So here he is, at the grocery store, shopping for the Hardison-Parker family because he can't trust either of them to buy anything other than junk food and liquid sugar. At least this time, Hardison is with him, with baby Carrie strapped to his front.

Actually, Eliot is starting to doubt whether it is in fact a good thing that Hardison is with him because he keeps throwing things into the cart that are completely unhealthy.

"Hardison!" he growls, throwing the sodium-and-fat-drenched bag of fried snacks back at the hacker, "You can't feed that to a baby! Are you outta your mind?"

"It's not for the baby, it's for Parker!" Hardison protests, throwing the bag back into the cart.

"And she's breast-feeding, so junk food and processed foods are out!" Eliot takes the bag and throws it over the shelf next into him in to the neighboring aisle.

"But she- " Hardison protests, before he's cut off by a very familiar sound coming from the store's speakers.

No, it's not the usual _"Happy customers shop at [store name]"_ spiel, or tinny pop music, but something that sounds a lot like _"Oo-wee-ooohh-weee-oooohhhh."_

Hardison's eyes snap straight up to the store's ceiling in a really, quite stupid attempt to see where the sound's coming from. Because that music sounds a lot like…

"Hey, isn't that song from that freaky show you like with the weird aliens?" Eliot asks, with a scowl on his face.

" _Doctor Who._ It's called _Doctor Who,_ Eliot," Hardison snaps, "And as awesome as it is, _that_ just ain't normal," he says, pointing at the ceiling. He pulls out his phone to see if he can find who the hell hacked into a supermarket's sound system, and why.

What he finds is rather puzzling, since his phone tells him that the device that did the hacking is currently standing exactly where he is, but isn't his own phone.

"So?" Eliot says, eyebrow raised, "Just a stupid prank?"

"Mmm," Hardison hums, "Weird." He keeps tapping. "Says the phone's right here."

Eliot huffs, frustrated because _grocery shopping_ has gotten interrupted by a hacking mystery. "Can you get more specific than that so I can punch their face in?"

"Uh, right here, as in right he- " Hardison trails off as he looks down into the baby sling strapped across his body and see something in it that shouldn't be.

Baby Carrie gurgles up at him with a pickpocketed phone in her tiny, baby-pudge hands and taps the screen.

" _Take my love, take my land"_ fills the air.

Carrie giggles in glee and drools on Hardison's shirt.

"No way," he mutters, pride and horror swirling in his chest. Sure, he's damned proud of his daughter's pickpocketing and hacking skills (and taste in TV and music), but also terrified as to what the next eighteen years are going to be like.

"Dammit, Hardison! The hell're you two teachin' that kid?"

* * *

References:

 _"Oo-wee-ooohh-weee-oooohhhh."_ \- That's what the theme song for _Doctor Who_ sounds like. Just ask John Barrowman to sing it. (Youtube)

 _"Take my love, take my land"-_ _Firefly_ theme song.


	9. I is for Igloo

Summary: Fun in the snow with Parker, Hardison, and Eliot. Right after episode 4.01 "The Long Way Down Job."

AN: I've been in real snow (as opposed to the fake stuff that comes out of shaved ice machines) exactly twice in my life. It was about half an inch high, if that, both times, and they were when I was traveling. Also, there wasn't anything coming down from the sky by the time I got there. So no, I've never been in falling snow. (But I've seen hail, which is about the size of Nerds candy where I live. At least, that's what I thought, until I went out to the Midwest and witnessed what real golf ball-sized hail is like…in the middle of summer, no less! *mind blown*) Therefore, please forgive any mistakes you find in this.

Am I starting to get desperate with this keeping up with the writing thing? No, of course not. Why ever would you think that?

* * *

 **I is for Igloo**

"I love snow!" crows Parker as she flops down onto her back and makes a snow angel in the blindingly white snow.

"Whoo!" cries Hardison, jumping into a small snowdrift. He leaps into another spot on the mound, crushing the hardened snow into a mashed-up mess. He spends a few minutes demolishing the crisp, pure-white snow into a grayish, slushy pile.

At least, until he gets a _brilliant_ idea. He finds a fresh patch of snow, bends down and grabs a mitteny handful, packs it just right, then-

How the hell does the man even do it? Seriously.

Eliot dodges the snowball and scoops up his own handful in one graceful motion. A fistful of expertly-packed snow to the sneaky pitcher's face accompanies his growled "Hardison…"

Hardison's startled yelp attracts Parker, who has by now graduated from making interesting or gruesome (or both) snow outlines (i.e. One-Winged Angel, Hunchbacked Angel, Fat Angel, and Bulimic Angel with a splatter of fake puke made out of some kind of pureed canned food) to making an upside-down snowman doing a headstand.

"Let's make an igloo!" she shouts in his ear.

The snowball to the face must have addled Hardison's brains because this actually sounds like a good idea. "Okay," he says, grinning wide, "Where do you wanna make it? How about over here?"

"Eliot! You're helping us make an igloo!" Parker whoops, snagging an arm around the hitter's neck in what would be a chokehold on anyone else.

"Do you even know anything about making an igloo?" Eliot says, untangling himself and preparing for a long afternoon of frustration.

"Yeah! It's made out of snow!" is the reply he gets, making him do the ol' growl 'n' scowl.

He briefly contemplates letting them make it on their own and messing it up, but he doesn't exactly relish the thought of having to dig a couple of suffocating, freezing idiots out of a collapsed mountain of snow in a couple of hours, so he gives his trademark longsuffering sigh and stalks over to where Hardison is happily digging a hole in the side of a tiny snowdrift.

"Dammit, Hardison! That ain't how you do it, 'nless you want it to collapse and kill ya!" he growls, marching over to the idiot. "Not that I'd miss ya, personally, but your Nana'd likely cry all over us if we let you die."

He thrusts the shovel he'd brought out at Hardison, turns him towards a likely-looking pile of hardened snow, and orders, "Dig a trench there. We'll need to cut out blocks of snow first."

Hardison wilts, and shuffles over to where he'd been pointed. "Man, you just take the fun outta everythin'!" he whines as he shoulders the shovel.

"I'll get the Eskimos!" Parker says, and skips off. By the time Eliot digests what she'd just said, she has already disappeared from sight.

"Dammit, Parker! Damn, damn, damn!"

And he isn't at all embarrassed by the fact that he has just thrown a hissy fit in the snow.

. . . . . . .

It takes a lot of effort, endless shouting, a great deal of whining, countless breaks, gallons of hot chocolate, and a little bit of Parker testing out the temperature of the snowy wall by sticking her tongue to it, but the igloo, immediately christened Bag End by Hardison (who else?) is completed by the end of the day.

With self-satisfied smiles, they sit on the snowy floor inside their igloo and admire their work over a flask of hot chocolate.

Hardison grins wide. "I'm in heaven! I'm in a snow hobbit house! Peter Jackson, kiss my freezin' ass!" A beat. "Can we go home now? I dunno if I mentioned it, but I'm freezing! And we forgot to make a restroom."

* * *

Reference: Peter Jackson, Bag End, hobbit house = _The Lord of the Rings_ and _The Hobbit_


	10. J is for Jack O'Lantern

Summary: Mr. and Mrs. Hardison pilfer Halloween candy after their kids go to bed. "Sticky Little Fingers" 'verse. Extended version of "The Jack O'Lantern Job" from the little blurb in "Twenty-Five Stories."

AN: As stated in previous chapters, the complete list of stories in the "Sticky Little Fingers" 'verse is on my profile.

* * *

 **J is for Jack O'Lantern**

A darkened room, lit only by the light of the half-moon outside the window, a pale white hand reaches into an enormous orange plastic bucket. It pulls out one, two, _three_ small packets that rustle slightly at the movement, and deposits them into two cupped hands, black as midnight.

"One more?" Parker mouths at Hardison.

"Let's get some from Ruby's," he replies, "Carrie'll notice. She's getting suspicious."

"Okay."

Again, a slender hand disappears into a jack o'lantern bucket, and comes up with a handful of "fun-size" candy.

"What we got?" Hardison asks, peering over her shoulder.

"Skittles!" Parker says, eyes twinkling with excitement as she tears open the tiny bag.

"Ain't had these in years!" Hardison says, holding out his hand for a couple. "Mmm. Just like I remember 'em."

Suddenly, the lights turn on, momentarily blinding them.

"Gotcha!"

Three kids tumble into the room, pointing accusing fingers with identical glares _a la_ Uncle Eliot at their thieving parents.

Parker and Hardison swallow their mouthfuls of pilfered candy with some difficulty.

"When did they get so good?" Hardison says out of the side of his mouth to his wife.

"Sometime between last year and this year?" she replies through a nervous grin.

"We're telling Uncle Nate!" crows Carrie gleefully.

"We're never gonna live this down," mutters Hardison.

"Trick or treat!" says Parker brightly in an attempt to distract the kids.

" _Mom!"_

* * *

AN: Did my parents do this? No, they just tossed out half my take, "for my own good," and thought that I wouldn't notice. ("For my own good," my butt! I have since grown up into an adult who indulges in gummy bears, Skittles, and peanut M&Ms rather frequently because now I can buy them. With my own money. So there. :P)


	11. K is for Kimi

AN: This one is a "Kimiko Marie" 'verse fic. That means it's mostly an _Angel/Leverage_ fic, but has a bit of _Close to Home_ in it as well. Basically, in this 'verse, Eliot has retired to raise his four-year-old daughter, and has recommended his twin brother Lindsey (from _Angel_ ) to be his replacement on the team. Lindsey has a past as Jack from _Close to Home,_ except that instead of *spoilers* him dying at the end of Season 1, his family did instead. *end spoilers* But that last part doesn't matter in this one, so feel free to just ignore it, 'kay?

You can find all the stories in this 'verse listed on my profile, or you can check out my previous _Leverage_ birthday fics (the chapters labeled 'K') and the one-shot "Baby Blues."

Summary: A vignette in the "Kimiko Marie" 'verse. Kimi, Hardison, and Lindsey. _Leverage/Angel_ crossover.

* * *

 **K is for Kimi**

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Kimi dances with carefully calculated reckless abandon.

She dances the way Eliot fights.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"You want this?"

Hardison chuckles while Kimi jumps and swipes another hand at him, trying to grab the DVD case that he's holding out of her reach.

Kimi screws up her face in anger, her normally rosy cheeks even redder than usual. "Alec Wunnerlan!" she pouts, addressing him by her pet name for him, and puts tiny hands on her hips. "That's not nice."

"If you want it, you gotta work for it, lil' bit," Hardison grins, and pulls the DVD away again.

Lindsey shakes his head from his armchair. "I wouldn't keep teasing her like that," he warns mildly over the top of his book.

"Why not?" Hardison asks, "You're just jealous because she likes playing with me more than you," he concludes smugly. Although Uncle Lin-Lin has always been a favorite of Kimi's, Uncles Alec Wunnerlan and Nato and Aunts Sofeee and Parker (for some reason, "Parker" is the only name that little Kimi can - or will - pronounce correctly) have been gaining in popularity, due to their propensity to heap expensive and completely unnecessary presents upon her.

Lindsey merely smiles and shrugs, turning a page in his book. "If you say so. Don't say I didn't warn you."

Lindsey's words prove to be quite correct; while the adults had been distracted in their conversation, Kimi had backed up a dozen steps, and now, she thunders towards Hardison with the speed and power (and bellow) of an enraged bull and launches at him in a full-body tackle.

Although Kimi, as a slight, four-year-old child, weighs next to nothing in comparison to the aforementioned bull, Hardison, being unprepared for it, topples back into a sprawl with Kimi sitting on top of him.

Lindsey chuckles. "Like father like daughter," he grins, "Saw that one comin' a mile away. Sometimes all you see is how tiny an' cute she looks an' how sweet she is. But you just gotta remember whose kid she is, Hardison."

From her victorious position on top of Hardison's chest, Kimi leans over and grabs the much-desired DVD from the defeated hacker's limp hand and holds it up triumphantly for her Uncle Lin-Lin to see.

"Good girl, Kimi darlin'," Lindsey says, and digs in his pocket for a small toy that he hands to her. "That's for winning me that bet with your daddy. There's another one in it for you if you win me the one with Nate."

Hardison groans up at them from the floor. "Seriously, Lindsey? Seriously?"

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

* * *

AN: The bet with Nate? No idea. You tell me. And yes, Hardison is mean for teasing a little kid like that. He has since learned his lesson.


	12. L is for Letter (and Librarian)

Summary: A future _Leverage_ team member gets a strange letter from the Metropolitan Public Library. Crossover with _The Librarian_ franchise.

A short one this time. _The Librarian_ TV movies and _The Librarians_ TV series were both produced by Dean Devlin, who also produced _Leverage_. John Rogers is also involved in the franchise. It's basically a more nerdy Indiana Jones-ish fantasy story that's about collecting magical/mythological/famous artifacts, preventing them from doing harm, preventing bad guys from using them to do evil things, and carefully cataloging them, as a proper librarian should. *snerk* The main character went to a job interview at The Library after getting a mysterious letter...

* * *

 **L is for Letter (and Librarian)**

 _December 5, 2004_

 _Mr. Nathan Ford  
_ _12708 Devlin Rd.  
_ _Los Angeles, CA 90002_

 _Dear Mr. Ford,_

 _You have been selected to interview for a prestigious position with the Metropolitan Public Library…_

. . .

Nate glances through the strange letter and dismisses it as a hoax. After all, what would a library want with an expert in recovering stolen valuables? Would he be hunting down overdue library books?

Besides, he's already bringing in a good amount of money, especially if he works hard enough to earn those bonuses. He and Maggie, they're doing alright.

At least, they would be, if they didn't have all those medical bills to pay.

 _Oh, Sammy._

Nate purses his lips and taps the letter against the envelope in his hand, thinking…

It couldn't hurt to check how much the salary would be, could it? But then again, a librarian – at a public library, no less – most likely wouldn't earn as much as he already does at I.Y.S.

And he wouldn't want to move Sam out to – he glances down at the return address on the envelope – the east coast, not now. Not now, when he's too frail and weak to do anything other than lie in that hospital bed with all those tubes and needles sticking out of him.

Maybe he could do it as a side job, whatever this "prestigious position" is.

But then again, maybe not. He's already spending too much time away from home and his wife and son.

So he takes the letter, slides it back into the envelope, and tosses it into the trashcan under his desk.

With a sigh, he rubs his forehead and picks up the file on a new thief, one Ezekiel Jones. He sighs again. They just keep getting younger and younger.

. . . . . .

* * *

References:

12708 Devlin Rd. – Reference to Dean Devlin, the executive producer of both _Leverage_ and _The Librarian_. The first episode of _Leverage_ aired on December 7, 2008 (12/07/08).

The text of the letter comes directly from the first episode of _The Librarians_.

Ezekiel Jones is the thief on the _Librarians_ team. By my calculations, he would have been about 10 years old when the letters for the position of the new Librarian (given to Flynn Carsen in 2004) went out. How that works into the show, I have no idea. Who would offer a ten-year-old a job as a librarian at a regular library, much less an Indiana Jones-style Librarian at what amounts to Warehouse 13 (from the TV show of the same name) or Hangar 51 _(Indiana Jones_ series)? Or did I misunderstand the show or something? Anyway, someone explain that to me.


	13. M is for Monologue

Summary: A dialogue between brothers on the evils of monologuing. Very short standalone one-shot that may or may not be a bit crackish and maybe a little meta as well. _Leverage/Angel_ crossover. Standalone or "McDonald Boys" 'verse.

AN: You don't have to have read the "McDonald Boys" 'verse to understand this. Just know that Lindsey McDonald, the "evil" lawyer who kept changing his mind about being good (put simply) from _Angel_ is the twin brother of Eliot Spencer. If you want to read the rest of the series, the full list of stories is on my profile (there's a list of everything in posting order and chronological order).

Thank you to **Honorat** for explaining the Ezekiel Jones age thing on the last chapter. :)

* * *

. . . . . . .

 **M is for Monologue**

Lindsey rolls his eyes and shakes his head in disbelief. He walks over to the now steaming and melting demon corpse and, snorting softly at the stupidity of it all, says, "Shouldn'ta monologued, buddy. Evil monologue of evil. It never fails to screw you over."

He tips his cowboy hat down over his eyes and shakes his head again. _R.I.P., you evil motherfu-_

"Sounds like you know from experience," his twin brother's voice comes from behind him, sounding a little bit amused and rather more fond.

Lindsey grins and arranges his face into an incredulous, upset pout, just to please Eliot because he knows that Eliot gets such a kick out of being the "mature" one of the two.

"Once," the former lawyer huffs dramatically, "Did it _once_ and it got me a vacation in hell. What, you never did it?"

Eliot chuckles, the laugh lines around his eyes crinkling up as he claps a hand on his brother's shoulder. "No, why the hell would I? I wait until the fight's over and then I do a badass one-liner, if anything." He rolls his eyes to show just exactly how serious he's being.

Lindsey scoffs. "That's no fun."

Eliot has the last word by walking off into the dusty sunset, coolly not saying anything at all.

. . . . . . .

* * *

AN: Just a bit of fun brotherly banter. ;D


	14. N is for Nervous

OHMYGAWD! FINALLY! I've been trying to post my new chapters for the last couple of days, but kept getting this "503 error" page. Apparently, there was a power failure that resulted in the servers not working, or something like that. Hardison would know. Anyway, this chapter is for 9/1. The 9/2 one will be posted right after this one, as long as the connection/server/whatsis stays put.

Summary: A wedding. "Sticky Little Fingers" 'verse. Future-fic.

AN: This fic is in the "Sticky Little Fingers" 'verse, but after "Silver Anniversary." Nate/Sophie have a daughter, Irene. Hardison/Parker have five kids all named after money or other precious objects (for a full list, read select chapters from "Twenty-Three Chromosomes"), and Eliot/Maggie. Eliot has a son, Michael, with another woman, who passed away (again, see "Twenty-Three Chromosomes"). The series has somehow built up into Michael/Irene and culminated into this particular story, in which they get married.

* * *

 **N is for Nervous**

"Nervous?"

The voice comes from behind him, and he really shouldn't be this jumpy. He really shouldn't. He's faced bombs and gunfire and death, and he really shouldn't be this…nervous.

Michael Roberts-Spencer clears his throat and turns around.

"Nervous?" he says, and scoffs, "Who me?" He smirks, and it's not shaky at all. Not a bit.

Nate raises an eyebrow and gives him a _look._ It's different from one of his dad's looks, or any of his commanding officers'. It's actually eerily akin to one of his fiancée's, which makes sense, since Nate's her dad.

"Of course you're not," the older man says, and joins him in leaning against the railing of the church's balcony. "Of course. Just like every groom is completely fine on his wedding day." He gives Michael the _look_ again.

Michael wilts and tugs at the bow tie choking his neck. "So you caught me. It's not doubt, honestly," he rushes to assure his future father-in-law, "I love her, no doubt about it. It's just…Am I good enough for her? Am I the best that she can do? You know?"

He doesn't know what's gotten into him. He does _not_ talk about stuff like this with Nate, not since he and Irene Ford were teenagers just figuring out what all these hormones were telling them. Not since Nate completely overreacted when he found out that his daughter had been kissing his best friend's son. Repeatedly.

They've gotten into a routine of tense civility over the years. Nate glares and grits his teeth over his glass of whiskey, Michael gives him polite, rigid smiles, and Irene rolls her eyes at them both.

They don't _talk._

And now, Nate stands next to him, staring out at the parking lot full of cars down below them, and says nothing. Michael is just about regretting losing his cool when Nate says, "Of course you're not good enough for her. She's my daughter. But then again, no one is. So if I've got to settle for whoever's best, I'd rather it be you."

Michael blinks in surprise until Nate turns to him from his contemplation of the world below them, and gives him a small smile. Not one of those fake, stiff smiles that Sophie forces him to make, but a real one, with hints of pride and affection in it.

"Your father raised you well," he says softly. "He ought to be proud of the man you've become. I know I am."

Michael truly does not know what to say to that, but he's saved from replying by yet another voice.

"I am proud of him," Eliot says, walking onto the balcony to stand on Michael's other side. "I'm very proud." He claps a hand on his son's well-muscled shoulder and gives him a smile that crinkles up the lines around his eyes. "Even though I managed to sneak up on you just now. I know I trained you better than that," he says with mock severity.

"I-uh," Michael starts, but is interrupted by Nate.

"I snuck up on him, too, actually," the mastermind says, and chuckles when Michael drops his head down on to his crossed arms on the railing.

"I'm freaking out, alright? I admit it," he groans in the direction of his shiny-shoed feet.

Nate pats him on the back. "It's normal. Every groom goes through it, every time. Trust me. And if you don't, ask Hardison. You should've seen him."

He and Eliot share a chuckle before the hitter says fondly, "You should've seen Parker," which makes them both laugh harder.

Michael straightens and looks at them, confused.

"She did a runner," Eliot explains, still laughing, "They ended up getting married hanging twenty-five stories from the ground in 50 mph wind. Only way she'd do it. Hardison was a mess."

"You all talkin' about me behind my back?" the hacker said as he joined them.

"Just explaining to young Michael here that it's normal to be nervous," Nate says.

Hardison grins. "Oh yeah, but you know what helps?" he says, leaning closer as if imparting a big secret.

Michael has lived with the Leverage family for way too many years to not suspect a trick, but he leans in anyway. "I'll bite," he says.

Hardison lifts his hand to his mouth and mimes taking a drink, making the older men laugh.

Nate reaches into his jacket and pulls out a silver flask. "That it does," he says, and hands it to Michael, who takes it with a touch of surprise. This day is getting weirder and weirder, but he sure ain't complaining.

The whiskey burns going down his throat, but Hardison's right in that it does calm his nerves down a touch. The flask gets passed around. Nate's taking his turn when yet another voice joins the group, this time scolding.

"Nate!" Sophie huffs, "How could you? On your daughter's wedding day?" She marches up to him and snatches the flask from his hand, ignoring his whine of protest. "Shame on you."

She whirls on her tasteful heels and marches back out.

Michael sighs. "I guess that'll have to be enough to get me through the service," he muses ruefully.

Eliot snorts and shakes his head, looking pointedly at Nate, who sticks his hand in his jacket again and offers Michael the second flask he'd hidden there earlier that morning.

Michael grins. "God, I love you, Nate," he says, and takes a grateful pull.

The flask has gone around again and is in Hardison's hand when Eliot and Michael stiffen and hiss to the hacker to "put it away, now!"

All four men turn in unison and smile with beatific innocence at the woman in the doorway.

"Hi Maggie."

"Hi," Maggie says, and frowns. "Drinking, boys? You ought to be ashamed."

The men cringe and do indeed look ashamed.

Maggie holds out a hand. "Hand it over."

The flask is reluctantly given up with longing sighs.

"Maggie," Nate tries, but is cut off by a glare.

"Really, Nate," his ex-wife, currently Eliot's girlfriend for the past few years, says, "Haven't you learned to share yet?" She takes a good long swig from the flask. "Good God, I needed that. My ex-husband's daughter and my boyfriend's son are getting married today. And I'm telling you, the poor girl's a mess in there. Full-blown panic attacks about whether she's good enough and all that. The usual. And Carrie, Ruby, and Flo are _not_ helping."

Three of the four men shudder as the idea of Hardison and Parker's daughters trying to "help" goes through their minds.

Michael, on the other hand grins widely and hugs his good-as stepmother. "Tell her that I'm marrying the girl of my dreams today. I don't want anyone else."

Maggie smiles gently and kisses him on the cheek. "I'll tell her." She rubs the lipstick off from the freshly-shaven skin and pinches Michael's cheek. "The two of you are adorable, you know that?"

Michael blushes. "Thanks, Maggie."

"And he blushes, too," Maggie says, making Michael's cheeks burn even more brightly.

"Only for you, Mama," he says without embarrassment, "You're that special." Michael's real mother had always been "Mom," but Maggie is sometimes "Mama," since Eliot and Maggie have been an item for so long.

Maggie's eyes fill with tears. "You're special too, sweetie." She and Eliot's son have a special relationship; they have both lost someone (Michael his mother, and Maggie her son), and though neither acts as a replacement for the one lost, in each other, they have found someone who understands and who helps fill that empty space in their hearts like no one else can.

The gracefully aging blonde smiles again, and gives Michael's cheek one more pat before she gives the men a glance over as if to check for crooked ties and unbuttoned flies. Satisfied, she nods, and goes off again, muttering about how children grow up too fast while surreptitiously wiping a tear from the corner of her eye.

"So," Eliot says.

"Nervous?" Nate finishes.

Michael grins and shakes his head. He leans back against the railing as if without a care in the world. "Not a bit."

Hardison snorts. "I think the whiskey's got to him."

. . . . . . . . .

* * *

AN: Sorry you didn't get to see more of the SLF kids here, but I didn't think they really fit in with what I wanted to do. At least you got to finally hear Maggie call someone else "adorable," since she keeps getting called that on the series and in my fics.


	15. O is for Ocean

Summary: Pirates AU. Avast, me hearties! All hope abandon ye who click here…Anachronisms, a peg leg, and a monkey named Parker.

AN: I wrote this because quite a few people wanted to see it. I hope that it lives up to your expectations! Also, I'd like to say that I know nothing about pirates and ships, bein' a landlubber meself. So beware…

* * *

 **O is for Ocean**

"Goin' at the grog again, Cap'n?" the low, gravelly voice says from behind Nathan Ford, captain of the pirate ship _Leverage._

Ford tucks his flask back into his belt and glares at his quartermaster. It never fails to amaze him how the well-muscled man can move so quietly on his peg leg.

"'Tis none of your business to think on," Ford replies, surly at having been caught at the rum again.

Spencer gives a derisive snort, but says nothing. "Parker's just sighted the _Interpol_ to the west. What's the plan, Cap'n?" he asks instead.

Ford purses his lips and squints down at his maps. "Plan…O. Yes, Plan O will do nicely. _Damn Sterling."_

"Aye-aye, Cap'n," the one-legged pirate says, and stumps away, holding the door open for Sophie, or Sly Sophie, as she's called in certain circles (other names being Sophie the Siren and Sofia the She-Devil), as she enters the cabin. Spencer may be a pirate, but he has better manners than some gentlemen Ford has known.

"Watch yeself, Soph," Spencer mutters, "'E's in a mood."

The beautiful woman gives him a small nod of acknowledgement as she sweeps in. She catches the whiff of rum on Ford's breath and sighs. "How many bottles, today, Nate?" she asks, frowning.

"That's 'Captain' to you, wench," Ford growls, hating every minute that he has to spend with these degenerate _pirates_. He will abandon them as soon as he gets his revenge on Sterling, the man who betrayed him. At least, that's what he says to himself every time he finds his lips twitching up in a smile at the antics of Spencer, Hardison, and the latter's thrice-damned pet monkey with sticky paws, Parker.

"Nate," Sophie says, sidling up close to him and pouting. The others, especially Spencer, had objected strongly to the presence of a woman onboard the ship, citing bad luck, but she had quickly won them over. However, there had been some setbacks in the form of betrayal that had taken some time to mend.

"Nate," the woman says again, and reaches for him, sliding her deft fingers up the gold buttons of his vest and tugging at the shirt underneath. "You don't _need_ the rum, not when you have me," she whispers into his ear, tangling her fingers in his hair.

"Mm," he says against the soft lips that press onto his, then pulls away. "My moneybag back, if you please, madam," he says as politely as he can with such distractions as Sophie the Siren so close to him.

"Hm," Sophie says, and smiles that seductive smile that had almost lured him away from his place at the helm of one of Lord Blackpoole's merchant ships. "Perhaps later…if you've earned it," she giggles.

"Earn it?" he repeats, "I assure you madam, I am an honorable- "

"-pirate," she finishes. "You're a pirate, Nate. A damn good one. Be proud of it."

. . . . .

Eliot Spencer limps his way onto the deck, where he finds Hardison yelling himself hoarse at the tiny figure high up in the air.

"Well, that's it! I'm done with monkeys! When I get me feet back on good, solid earth, I'll be findin' meself a nice little sparrow. An' I'mma call 'im Jack. Jack de Sparrow!" the dark-skinned bosun shouts up at the small brown monkey dangling upside-down by its tail from the crow's nest.

"Stop teasin' him, Parker," Spencer growls up at the monkey, who has one of the bosun's tools in her paws.

Parker screams her displeasure at the two men for a good minute, then scampers down the rope ladder. She shrieks again, showing her sharp, white teeth, and deliberately drops the hammer on her poor human's head.

"Ach!" Hardison cries. "Ye blasted monkey!"

Parker makes a whimpering sound, dropping her tiny shoulders and widening her big eyes. Her tiny hands pull at her tail, stroking it in a decidedly nervous fashion.

"Ach," her human says again, "C'mere, me girl. Ye're a good girl, aren't ye?" he coos, picking her up in his carpenter's hands. "Ye're a good girl."

Parker takes advantage of her closeness to the man to slip coins and hardtack out of Hardison's pouch.

"Aye," Spencer mutters, shaking his head and stumping away, "A mis'rable bunch of loonies, this 'ere ship is, every last one o' 'em. Loonies!"

. . . . .

"Well blow me down, if it isn't Master Nathan Ford!" Captain James Sterling calls across the narrow space between the _Leverage_ and the _Interpol._ "It has been a while, hasn't it, Nate?"

"Sterling." Ford's voice is curt, sharp. It slices the other captain's falsely sweet words into smithereens. "Surrender."

"I have a proposition for you, Nate," Sterling shouts, "Agree, and we both profit." _Don't,_ the silent words echo between them, _and your crew dies._

"Aye?"

" _Cap'n, no!"_ he hears from behind him. _"'E's a bilge-suckin' rat, 'e is. Ol' Davy Jones 'imself must be missin' 'im." "Can't trust the likes of 'im."_ The monkey screeches her agreement.

"There is a certain…merchant ship that has escaped my grasp," Sterling says. "He happens to be in possession of a certain…item. Something that I want you to get me. The rest of the cargo is yours."

" _Shiver me timbers, 'e'll be agreein' next,"_ mutters a voice behind Ford.

"Aye, I'm listening," Ford says.

. . . . .

"C'mere, me buxom beauty," the swarthy captain says, ogling Sophie's fine figure in the low-cut, fine silk dress. He sniggers. "Ye can board me anytime!"

Sophie simpers, and crosses the plank onto his ship, while behind him, the numbers of his crew decrease one by one as Spencer swings across the gap on a rope and takes them down with only his fists and peg leg, being against the idea of blades and guns on principle.

As Spencer dispatches one large, hulking giant by shoving a handful of playing cards into his stinking, yellow-toothed mouth, Hardison muses, "Cards, eh? What's next, a swordfish?"

"Done that, just off Bermuda, five years ago," Spencer says, tipping the ball and powder out of the flintlock pistol that he had just taken off of a now-toothless wretch.

"Blow me down!" Hardison exclaims loudly, which _finally_ catches the enemy captain's attention.

"'Oo the bloody 'ell 're ye?" he cries, turning away from the amorous gaze of Sophie. This turns out to be a mistake, as she quickly knocks him out with one blow.

"Who am I?" Hardison cries dramatically, throwing out his chest and setting his fists on his skinny hips, "Who am I? _I_ am the Dread Pirate Roberts!"

His crewmates, including the monkey, look at him blankly for a long, uncomfortable minute.

"Get to work," Ford bellows, "Smartly, men!"

Sophie sends him a pointed look.

"And lady."

. . . . .

* * *

AN: *dodges cannonballs* Arrr? By the way, September 19th is Talk Like A Pirate Day. Just fyi. ;D

 **References:**

Jack the Sparrow – Jack Sparrow, from _Pirates of the Caribbean._ Also, references Jack the monkey, who was named after Jack Sparrow.

Dread Pirate Roberts – From _The Princess Bride._ The "Who am I?" part may be a reference to Mushu in _Mulan_. Or maybe not.

 **Pirate terms (from thepiratesrealm dot com, piratetreasurenow dot com, and latinamericanhistory dot about dot com):**

Avast – "Avast Ye!" - From the Dutch term for "hold fast" and means "Stop and pay attention."

Grog - The nickname of a British admiral was applied to a mix of water and rum, the rum was a cheap antiseptic and flavor mask for the spoiled water that sailors often encountered while at sea.

Quartermaster - After the Captain, the quartermaster was probably the most important man on the ship. He was in charge of seeing that the Captain's orders were carried out and handled the day-to-day management of the ship.

Bosun – The Boatswain, or Bosun, was in charge of the ship itself and keeping it in shape for travel and battle. He looked after the wood, canvas and ropes that were of vital importance on board.

Hardtack - Extremely hard crackers made of flour, water, and salt. Hardtack would keep for years if dry, but ships never are, so they often grew maggots or other worms. Also called: hardbread, ship's biscuit, tooth dullers, molar breakers, sheet iron crackers, and worm castles.

Bilge-sucking - insult

Davy Jones - Davy Jones was said to be an evil spirit lurking at sea, waiting to escort dead sailors or pirates to his place or locker at the bottom of the waters.

Shiver me timbers! - Akin to "Blow me down!", an expression of shock or disbelief, believed to come from the sound the ship made when "shocked" by running aground or hit by a cannon blast.

Smartly – Do something quickly.


	16. P is for Penguin

What's this? A third posting in one day? Ummm...The first two were to make up for the site being wonky and not letting me post on schedule. This one is me being sleepy and wanting to get this out before midnight so that I can get in a little more sleep.

Summary: "Do penguins ever wonder what it's like to fly?" This story is an extended version of one that was previously posted on comment-fic at LJ under the title "Flightless Bird" to the prompt: "Any, any & child, penguins at the zoo"

AN: I don't know what it is with my mind-canon Parker and strange animals (and that one time she "stole" a baby [in one of my earlier _Leverage_ stories, "Parker the Stork"]), but here's yet another one. At least it wasn't "platypus" – Aaaargh! No, Parker. Put it down!

* * *

 **P is for Penguin**

"Do penguins ever wonder what it's like to fly?"

"Parker." Eliot struggles for a minute before settling with a muttered, "Somethin' wrong with you."

"I should take one rappelling with me," the blonde thief says dreamily, leaning _waay_ over the railing and looking down at the absurd little tuxedoed birds below them, "Then he can tell all the other penguins what it's like."

"Why?" Hardison asks. "Penguins don't fly for a reason, y'know? They're fast swimmers. They don't need to fly."

"But they're birds," Parker frowns, "They should want to fly. Why else would they have wings?"

Eliot shakes his head and scrunches his eyes up in an attempt to will his ears into not hearing the crazy issuing from beside him. No, it's useless.

"Ostriches have wings," Hardison reasons, "And they don't fly."

Eliot groans and contemplates pulling his hair. Nope. Not that desperate yet. He can handle this. It's just a little bit of crazy, 's all. Nothing more than usual.

"I'll take an ostrich up next. Penguin first, though, because they're more portable," Parker says decisively in her 'planning voice.' "An ostrich would need a specially-designed neck brace on the harness. Something that wouldn't constrict too much while supporting the vertebrae. Did you know that there are seventeen vertebrae in an ostrich's neck? There are seven in a human's," Parker hums contentedly, now hanging backwards off of the railing.

Eliot mutters something about "break yours," making Hardison step away from him.

"Right," Hardison says brightly. "So guys, what are your thoughts on platypuses? Platapi? Platapods?"

Eliot gives in and pulls his hair. Really. Torture in North Korean prisons? Sure, fine, great. But an afternoon out playing at being "normal" (such a relative term) with Parker and Hardison (but mostly Parker)? No, nope, never again.

* * *

AN: I'll get to answering reviews soon. Sorry for the delay - thanks a bunch for the reviews and comments! I love 'em! You don't know how much anxiety I was dealing with because I couldn't post those chapters on time. Soooo much stress. *rolls eyes* Why do I do this to myself? Relax, Poesie!


	17. Q is for Queer

Summary: Why is it that people keep thinking that Eliot and Hardison are together? As in together-together? Yes, I went there. No, it's not slash, any more than the show officially is. Nate and Sterling guest star. Played for humor, see disclaimer.

Disclaimer: This one-shot touches on a sensitive subject, homosexuality. No, the _Leverage_ characters as I've written them are not gay, but are seen by outsiders as being so, or act like it on purpose. It's mostly for laughs, but I do try to be respectful. The show uses the trope for humor, so I presume that people won't mind if I do it. If you are offended, shoot me a PM, and I'll try to resolve the issue. But please, Reader, be polite. Don't flame me. I'm not trying to be offensive.

AN: I swear, this idea came from the combination of _that_ scene in "The 12 Step Job" and my perusal of a "words that start with 'q'" list. The first part of this is from the actual episode, but it's only to get the fic started.

Warning: Poor ctrl+I keys. I abused the heck out of those suckers in this one. Eliot's such a drama queen (speaking of which, this chapter was almost "Q is for [Drag] Queen" or "Q for Quack" [as in fraud, or maybe I meant a duck, or maybe even a phony duck *gasp*]).

* * *

 **Q is for Queer**

Eliot rings the little bell at the front desk of Nate's rehab facility to get the attention of the cute blonde receptionist.

The young woman pushes towards Eliot and Hardison in her rolling chair. "Can I help you?"

Eliot gives her his most charming smile, the one reserved for the ladies. "You sure can. We're here to see a patient of yours, a Mr. Tom Baker."

He thinks he's _in_ until they find out that there's a strict "family only" policy on the joint, and _that idiot_ cockblocks him by telling her that they're together. As in _together._

Dammit, Hardison!

After that, he can't help but notice that sometimes, people just _assume._ That he and _the idiot_ are _together._

Not that there's anything wrong with homosexuality. He's not one of those stereotypical macho men who can't stand the thought of there being something other than a man and a woman together in a romantic relationship. He sure ain't a Bible-thumper who believes that there's only one way people can fit together and that anything else other than missionary position is dead wrong. He's seen gay couples who are a lot happier together than straight couples. That's all totally fine. You love who you love.

But it does grate on his nerves when beautiful women look at him and get _that_ look in their eyes.

Not the one that says, _"Hey, virile man. I want you. Now."_

No, it's the one that says, _"Aw, aren't they_ adorable?" when Hardison gets just a bit too handsy or pouty or hysterical or whatever the hell he does that makes people think they're a goddamn _couple!_

Because it sure as _hell_ ain't him.

Except when he's actually pretending to be. Then, it's fine. Then, it's great, then, it's _friggin' fantastic!_

Just not when he's actually trying to flirt with a woman, and Hardison's doin' his _extremely_ unsubtle and fake "he's my partner" thing for kicks because he thinks it's funny to see how much he can poke the bear before it turns on him and mauls him (actually Hardison calls it "tickling the sleeping dragon," which makes no sense at all).

Nate thinks it's hilarious. Eliot can tell. His face goes all blank and nonchalant, and when he's just about to _burst_ into laughter, he takes a long, measured sip from his glass to hide his face. He takes _a lot_ of shaky little sips.

 _Bastard._

But Eliot gets his own back when Nate goes for a business meeting with Sterling at a high end restaurant, and something about their body language tells a beautiful (probably pretty stupid) woman at a table nearby that it's okay to walk up and gush at them, "I think it's really great how much you obviously love each other. How long have you been together?"

Eliot, their "waiter" for the night, oozes into the conversation before the two middle-aged men can pick up their jaws from the snowy-white tablecloth. "They've been married for ten years now. It's their anniversary tonight, and they just _had_ to spend it here. I'm his brother by the way," he says, jerking his head at a furious Nate. "I'm just so proud of them for finally getting their acts together and jumping the broom, you know?"

And grins.

The woman smiles back. "That's really romantic."

Eliot keeps smiling, ignores Nate and Sterling's synchronized apoplectic fits, and turns on the _charm_. A little subtle, tasteful come-on…

And she's _so_ there. He's done this enough times that he can tell when he's _in._

Except she says, "Oh, I'm so sorry, honey. I don't swing that way."

Dammit, world! Dammit!

He grabs Nate's wine out of his hand and downs the whole thing.

Nate doesn't mind. He's too busy laughing.

. . . . . .

* * *

AN: Sorry, Eliot is with a new girl every time we see him, so I really just had to do this to him.

 **Reference:**

Obviously, that scene in "The 12 Step Job" is the most blatant example in the show, but there's also the line where Eliot asks Sophie which one of them (her or Hardison) Parker kissed in "The Second David Job." I'll bet that slashers have picked up on many, many more but those are the big ones that I got.

Tickling a sleeping dragon – reference to the motto of Hogwarts in _Harry Potter_ …because Hardison would. "Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus" means "Never tickle a sleeping dragon." This makes me wonder if anyone ever ticked Draco Malfoy while he was asleep. Nah, probably not. Because his father would "hear about this!"


	18. R is for Reflection

Summary: Previously written for comment-fic at LJ. Prompt: "Any, any, There's a reason why some people are afraid of mirrors." May be seen as a sequel to my fic "Wrong" (published 5/15/2012), but it's not necessary to read that to get this. _Leverage/Angel_ crossover.

* * *

 **R is for Reflection**

Eliot doesn't look in the mirror anymore. He hasn't for nigh on ten years. He'd told Nate that, told him why, to get him to think about what he was planning on doing. But he hadn't told him everything, even though he was sure Nate suspected, that they all suspected (and that Parker knew).

At first, it really was because whenever he looked into that mirror, he didn't recognize the person he saw there – didn't see the guy, the kid, who'd believed in the flag and everything it stood for, who'd believed in God and in the goodness of mankind.

No, who he saw was a hardened, jaded soldier with murder in his eyes, who sold his services to anyone who could pay his price, even as it increased through the years.

For two years after that, that image was all he saw when he glanced in the mirror every morning and every night. For two years, he got good at not caring about the cold-hearted monster he saw in that glass.

And then, eight years ago, it had changed.

Eight years ago, he had started seeing a different image in the mirror, a different reflection. A reflection who snarled at him, who threw barbed insults at him, who ranted and raved at him…

Eight years ago, his brother had died, betrayed, murdered.

Eight years ago, Eliot had known the exact moment of his brother's death because that was the moment his own reflection had been replaced by Lindsey's ghost, who shouted at him, raged at him, unheard by all others (except for Parker, it seemed), when Eliot couldn't see him, and threw his incorporeal body angrily against the other side of the glass when he could.

Reflections, they say, are a mirror of your soul. What does it say about Eliot's that the man he sees in the mirror each day is not his own reflection, but his brother, who hasn't aged a day since he got those two holes in his chest that gape mockingly at Eliot whenever he risks a glance in the mirror?

" _You never look me in the eyes anymore, El,"_ the ghost taunts with a sharp, knowing smile, _"Why is that? Scared of your own reflection?"_

"You're not me. I'm not you. We're brothers. We're not the same person."

" _You know what they say about twins and their souls."_

"Leave me alone."

" _I'll never leave you. Even when everyone else leaves, even when they all betray you, I'll be the last one left. The last thing you see, the last thing you hear. Because I'll never leave. I am you and you are me, and the day you die, I'll be free."_

Another mirror shatters under Eliot's fist.

* * *

AN: I wrote this ages ago, and realized that I never got around to posting it on this site. Sorry about the creepiness. :P


	19. S is for Sandiego

Summary: The team discusses one of Sophie's aliases. Mystery crossover. And yes, a bit of random crack. More than a bit, probably.

* * *

 **S is for Sandiego**

Hardison sputters. _"You're– "_

"Hm?" Sophie says with faux distraction. "Oh yes. That was me, yes."

"You mean to say that _you_ did that?" Parker tilts her head to the side in an effort to understand this. "No, you didn't," she says, making a face. "No way. _She's_ an urban legend…" She looks around the room. "Isn't she?"

Eliot lounges in his chair sharpening his knives with a deceptively relaxed posture. "Is she?" he asks, as if he hadn't been surprised by Sophie's admission, along with the rest of them.

Hardison _pffts_. "Naw, just…Naw. I mean, _they_ say _she_ has stolen time itself. Ain't no one can do that. It's an abstract concept. You can't steal abstract concepts."

Sophie leans over and gives him the Stare (which, obviously, is different from Eliot's Stare, sort of). "Can't you?"

"It's not possible!" Parker shouts, throwing her hands in the air. "How could you steal all that stuff and not teach me how! _Sophie_ wouldn't keep _that_ to herself! And where's your stash?!"

Having "solved" her problem, she sits down and sulks, muttering, "Sophie wouldn't keep that from me. It's a girl secret."

The men in the room blink at her for a moment, then glance at each other. _That didn't make any sense, right? Right. Still crazy Parker. Right._

"Nate," Hardison appeals to the highest authority (unless someone else feels strongly enough about something to argue it), "Nate, my man, she's lying, right? She's just joking."

Nate simply smiles and steeples his fingers under his chin. "Eliot?"

Eliot smiles (one of the scary mysterious ones). "Did I ever tell you about the time I ran into a V.I.L.E. agent?"

Hardison's jaw drops. "No way. V.I.L.E. is real? Is ACME real, too?" He shakes his head. "No, don't answer that. You just helpin' Sophie wit' her joke."

Eliot shrugs, as if to say, _"You wanted to know. Your loss if you don't believe me."_

Parker crawls over to Eliot from behind him and digs her sharp chin into his shoulder.

"Eliot," she whispers, "Is Sophie really Carmen Sandiego?"

Eliot chuckles and doesn't answer, just continues sharpening his machete.

Sophie winks at him from behind the others' gaping faces.

. . . . . . .

* * *

AN: I don't even know. Really. You're probably aware by now that at this point in my birthday challenge, I'm pretty desperate for ideas/inspiration, and anything goes, really. For this one: My dad has been watching late-night reruns of one of the _Carmen Sandiego_ shows, just for the sound or something while he's on the computer. And I have to admit, they're cheesy, but distractingly interesting.


	20. T is for Twin (and Tears and Tantrum)

Summary: "The Sky's Gonna Open" 'verse. What happens when Lindsey gets de-aged, too? Don't worry, it's only temporary. At least, that's what Lindsey hopes… _Leverage/Angel_ crossover.

AN: If you haven't read my "The Sky's Gonna Open" stories, check out my profile for the correct order to read them. If you don't want to read all of them, just know that Eliot gets de-aged, and it's pretty permanent. Lindsey (from _Angel_ ), his twin brother, comes to find out what's up and goes on a quest (because "he goes" by itself is too undramatic for Lindsey) to try to find a solution. He fails, and is "blackmailed" into joining the team. De-aged Eliot is a brat. Lindsey grows up and becomes dad-like, much to everyone's amusement. And Eliot is a brat.

* * *

 **T is for Twin (and Tears and Tantrum)**

Eliot laughs. He can't help it. It's too funny. _Too_ funny.

He feels the need to share this with the rest of the people in the van, so he says, "It's too… _funny!"_

So of course, Lindsey punches him.

And _of course_ , Eliot punches him back.

And then there's a fight.

These things do happen, after all, when you have two de-aged thirty-eight-year-olds rolling around in the back of the team van punching and biting and shoving and pulling and scratching and shouting and-

Yes, you read that right. _Two_ de-aged hitters.

The team had gone in to do recon on a job, except there had been magic involved, and Lindsey had _somehow_ ended up tangled up in clothes that had _somehow_ become too large for him, even though they had fit perfectly that morning. And _seven_. He'd ended up _seven._ Parker had picked up the enraged McDonald and brought him back to the van where Eliot promptly began laughing his head off at his now back-to-younger twin brother.

"Hee-hee-heeeee… _So_ funny!"

"Shut up!"

And the lull in the fighting ended and the tumbleweed of sharp elbows and knees bounce around the back of the van again, still completely disregarding Hardison's shrill shrieks about his sensitive, delicate equipment.

So Nate does the only thing he really can to.

" _Quiet!"_ he shouts. "Stop fighting, both of you. Hardison, shut up."

This, of course, only starts a barrage of complaints and accusations.

" _He_ started it!"

"No, _you_ did!"

"Did not!"

"Did too!"

"…an' you all have no idea how much time I spend working on these…"

"Did not!"

"Too!"

"…one-of-a-kind, expensive equipment…"

"Not!"

A piercingly shrill whistle slices through the air, giving everyone present an instant headache.

Parker takes her fingers out of her mouth and frowns at the now-quiet team.

"We're home," she says simply. "Sophie's been trying to tell us for a whole minute! She's waiting for us inside."

With that, she slips out of the van, leaving the door open for the rest of them to follow in their own time.

. . . . . .

The trek up to Headquarters does nothing for Lindsey's already very bad, no good day. He trips over his too-long jeans, gets his sleeves tangled up in his jeans legs, tripping him yet _again,_ his shoes are too big to even wear, and his twin brother keeps gleefully shoving him into the walls.

So _of course_ , as soon as he's all changed into Eliot's pint-sized clothes that now fit him too, and he's sitting on the couch with his short little legs dangling over the edge, right next to his twin brother who actually looks like his twin brother now instead of his son…his bottom lip wobbles, his big blue eyes fill up, and his adorable, cherubic head of dark blonde ringlets bows down, and…

"Oh, you whiny little bitch. I forgot how whiny you used to be, you overdramatic crybaby."

And with that, the waterworks start, and there's no stopping them now.

"My life sucks!" Lindsey wails, getting into his groove, "My life as I know it is oveeeerrrr. I wanna go hooooommmeee! But the mean, evil lawyers took iiiiiiiiitttt!"

" _Oh, for cryin' out loud,"_ Eliot mutters from next to him, "Get over it! It was thirty years ago, you dummy!"

"I wan' Mammmmaaaaaaaa!"

The other team members (and Bandit, Eliot's Dalmatian) sit around the two, staring. Sure, they'd heard that Lindsey had been a bit of a wimp growing up, but this is ridiculous.

"Shut up, Linny!" Eliot exclaims, and punches him in the shoulder. "You're bein' stupid."

The wailing ceases and only distraught, hiccupping sobs are heard. It's heartbreaking, truly pitiful. And as adorable a picture as a forlorn seven-year-old can get.

Nate can see now how in the world the McDonald twins had managed to get away with so much trouble in their youth. Resisting _this_ would take a heart of steel.

"I don't even know why I'm crying," a soft, wavering voice says presently. "I don't even know." Lindsey rubs his wet eyes with tiny fists and sniffles. His bottom lip wavers dangerously again.

Sophie melts into a gooey puddle and hands him a tissue. "Here you go, sweetie," she says gently, "Wipe your face and we can figure this out. Okay?"

Tiny shoulders move up and down in a half-hearted shrug. The messy blond head remains bent, Lindsey still refusing to look at anyone. Bandit moves over, puts his head (complete with Sad Ears and Sad Tail in the back) in Lindsey's lap, and drools on him. They know it's really bad when Lindsey doesn't even scold him for the unsanitary drooling and just pats the dog on its soft, furry head and sniffles.

Eliot scowls. He hates this. Okay, he'd hated it when it was him in this situation, but he'd gotten used to it, hadn't he? He'd adjusted, because that's what Eliot Spencer (formerly McDonald) does.

But Linny hurting is another matter.

 _No one_ hurts _his_ Linny (except for him, of course).

Oh, that bastard who did this to his baby brother (okay, _twin_ brother, but Linny's twelve whole minutes younger, isn't he?) is goin' down. Eliot is gonna rip that son of a bitch to pieces.

Lindsey lets out another sniffle and a tiny whimper from next to him.

For sure. He's gonna tear him from limb to limb for hurtin' Linny.

Lindsey's shoulders are hunched miserably and he's gone and caved into himself, and Eliot's hit with that sudden big-brotherly urge to make everything all better. Because that's what big brothers do, and he hasn't really had the chance to truly take care of Linny in a good long while. Sure he's done a bit of patching up when Lindsey gets all banged up on the job, and he cooks for him and stuff, but that's mostly because Lindsey would do that for him in his place (okay, maybe not the cooking part, unless Eliot wants to end up with food poisoning).

Recently, Lindsey's become more of a _dad_ to him, and it should be weird, but strangely, it isn't. It feels good. It feels right. Like there's nothing that can hurt him if Lindsey's around.

Of course, now, Lindsey's tiny again, just like Eliot, and Eliot doesn't feel like the one who needs to _be_ protected, but the one who should be doing the protecting. Just like it used to be. And it _should_ feel right, seeing how they're back in their natural birth order now, but it doesn't. It feels wrong. Lindsey crying and going all quiet like this is _wrong_ , in any shape.

So Eliot does the only thing he can do: make Linny feel better.

He puts his arm around the shuddering shoulders and tugs a little to make his brother lean into him (Linny comes willingly, so willingly that it's like they never grew up in the first place). Then he grabs Lindsey's right wrist with his other hand and waves it in front of his twin's face.

"Hey, look, Linny!" he says with false brightness. He waves the borrowed hand again.

Lindsey scrunches up his nose and tries fruitlessly to pull his hand away from his brother's grip. "Yeah," he says, peeved, and wanting to be left alone to wallow in self-misery in peace, "It's my hand." He pauses, and tilts his head, reddened blue eyes fixed on the waving appendage. _"It's my hand!"_

Their mystified audience watches in baffled silence as Eliot allows Lindsey to take his own hand from the loosened grip and examine it with fascinated eyes.

"Um, Lindsey?" Nate ventures.

Lindsey looks up at him and _grins._ Positively grins. "It's my hand!" he exclaims, waving the much-handled right hand around, almost hitting his smug-looking brother in his smug-looking face, as he sits back on the couch in a smug slouch.

"Yeah, we can see that," Hardison says, nodding sarcastically. "It sure is your hand."

"No," Lindsey says, leaning forward and pushing Bandit's head off of his lap, "It's _my_ hand. The one I was born with! Before it got cut off and I got a new one. It's _mine."_

"How do you know?" Parker asks, baffled.

"The mole," Eliot says, _smugly_ , "He had a mole on his right hand originally. The new hand didn't."

"It's my hand!" Lindsey exclaims again, gleefully, bouncing in his seat with a big grin on his face.

Sophie snorts. "You're easy to please, aren't you?"

Lindsey straightens, suddenly sober. "Excuse me? How would you feel if you had your hand amputated by a crazy vampire, then unknowingly had a former co-worker's hand grafted onto your wrist, which resulted in the hand going haywire and writing 'kill, kill, kill' on everything, and then after years and years, finally getting your real hand back? Huh? Wouldn't you be happy then, too?"

Sophie raises her brow at the narrow-eyed, furious little boy in front of her. "Yes, I suppose I would…" she says carefully, noting that Lindsey McDonald may have been slightly bipolar as a child.

Lindsey suddenly deflates, corroborating Sophie's silent musings. "Guess it's no use hoping that even if I get back to my real size, the hand'll come with me, huh? Either or, I guess."

Eliot purses his lips. "Can you get back?" he asks. "The guy who did it ain't dead, is he? That's why we couldn't get me back?"

Lindsey nods. "Yeah.

"So we could make him turn you back? Yeah?" Eliot urges. As much as he loves having Lindsey be his younger brother again, the way God intended him to be, it's not fair to keep him like that, since he's really not supposed to be little anymore.

Lindsey shrugs and says nothing.

Eliot narrows his eyes. _Thinking face,_ he thinks, _that's his thinking face._ He's overanalyzing and next, he'll be getting all broody. Broody Lindsey is bad.

Hardison comes to the rescue. He taps a few keys, and some security footage pops up on the screen.

"And there he is." The hacker scoffs, shaking his head in mock shame. "Thinks he's doin' a good job of hiding, he is. Look at him! Unbelievable."

Nate walks towards the door, and stops just as he gets to it. "Well, what are we waiting for, gang? Let's go get him."

With identical whooping cheers, the McDonald twins, leap off of the sofa in unison and hurdle towards Nate, and consequently, the exit.

"Let's get the slimy bastard!"

"Gonna kick his shins to smithereens!"

"Gonna kick his head off!"

"Gonna- "

"Uh, no," Nate stops them with a look. "You two are staying in the van with Hardison."

He really doesn't deserve this. Not this. No, not identical faces overfilling with incredulity and woe and shock and righteous anger and-

He really doesn't deserve this.

Nor does he deserve the indignant whine that intermingles with the twins' complaints.

"Now just hold on a minute! I ain't babysitting those two monsters!"

. . . . . . .

* * *

AN: Honestly, I just wanted to see wee!Eliot and wee!Lindsey interact with the grown-up team. I'm lazy, so I just made it happen, and then "solved" it in a lazy manner. Laziness mixed with urgency, since I'm trying to keep up with the posting schedule.

Okay, gang. I need ideas for what you want to see for the letter 'Z.' After all, it's the last chapter of the last (probably) birthday fic I'm going to do, and you all have been great all these years, so you ought to have some say in it.

I have some ideas:  
-zap (fun with a taser)  
-zeppelin  
-zest (Eliot cooking)  
-zipper  
-zirconia (cubic, fake diamonds)  
-zit  
-zombie apocalypse (which ties to the mention of "what to do in a zombie apocalypse" comment in "A is for Aardvark" to go full circle)

Any other suggestions? Just ideas, which I may or may not use, if I suddenly have a burst of writing energy for something else. I'd need some way to tie it into the letter 'Z.' Thanks, guys!


	21. U is for Udder

Summary: Eliot and Hardison on a farm. Ee i ee i oh! And on this farm there was a cow…

AN: Why, yes, that was a bit of a "McDonald Boys" joke there in the summary, what with it being an allusion to the children's song "Old MacDonald Had a Farm." This fic isn't a crossover, though.

* * *

 **U is for Udder**

Eliot shoves Hardison towards the dusty pen filled with straw and one heavy-eyed bovine.

"Git in there," the hitter says, his accent coming through stronger than ever, "Sit yer ass down."

Hardison moans and groans and pulls himself up on the fence.

"Not there, ya moron," Eliot growls, pulling the hacker down from the fence almost as soon as he get up there, and with one twisting motion, he forcibly seats him on the stool next to the cow.

"Ummmm," Hardison starts, staring at the long, hanging pink things a little under eye level. "Urrrrrrmmmmm…"

"Milk the cow, Hardison," Eliot orders, frustration evident. "For this con, you need to be able to milk the cow – Lord knows why – so milk it!"

Hardison eyes the dangling pink…nipples with horror. "I ain't touchin' those! Those are her lady bits!"

"Hardison!"

"It's too early for this!" the hacker wails. "It's the asscrack of dawn!"

"It's too early to be dealin' with _you_ ," Eliot mutters, his accent heavier than ever. He shoves Hardison aside and seats himself at the stool beside the poor, rejected cow. "Cain't even milk a cow. Ah learned this on mah daddy's knee. If a four-year-old kin do it, so kin you."

So he tries – _tries_ – to teach a cringing, retching Hardison how to milk a cow.

"Those are its boobies! You're pulling on her boobies!"

"Fer heaven's sake, Hardison!" Eliot growls, trying not to upset the cow even further, "I'm squeezin', not pullin'. An' another thing: Grow up!"

Parker appears, evidently having ascertained the absence of horses, and leans over the fence. "Doesn't that hurt? How did they get so big? Did it get implants? Is this a 'hot' cow?"

"Parker!"

. . . .

* * *

AN: It is my opinion that Hardison showed up with a battery-powered milking device (akin to the real electricity-powered ones they have for milking multiple cows) the next day and proceeded to milk "better than by hand!" to which Eliot growled and said, "Milk the damn cow, Hardison!" and Parker made odd sexual jokes that no one got.

Disclaimer: I know nothing about milking cows. I'm like Hardison here. So if anything's wrong, that's why.


	22. V is for Violin

Summary: _Sherlock Holmes_ fusion. "Irene Adler" aka Sophie steals a certain violin from a certain detective with an addiction problem.

AN: Since I chickened out on the British accents on the _Harry Potter_ chapter, I tried again on this one. I was going for the kind of language found in the _Sherlock Holmes_ books, but I have no idea if I got it right. :P Let me know?

* * *

 **V is for Violin**

The conwoman sometimes known as Irene Adler walks into the thieves' hideout with confidence and elegance. She lifts her elegant skirts to keep them from getting too dirty from the dust and wood shavings on the worn floor.

"Hardison," she trills with a self-satisfied smile, "Come and look at what I've… _acquired_ for you!"

The scuffling of worn-down boots is heard before the boy himself appears. Dark eyes widen in the soot- and oil-stained face.

"Cor!" the boy exclaims with barely concealed excitement, "Izzat what I thinks it is?"

Sophie Devereaux smiles and lifts the black case. "What do you think it is?" she teases.

A blonde head peeks at the box from under Sophie's arm. Deft fingers pick the tiny lock of the case, which pops open. "It's a violin," Parker says, disappointed, as she catches the falling instrument.

Hardison whips his hat off of his head and slaps it against his thigh, grinning widely. "Not just any violin," he says, "It's _his_ violin, innit? Blimey."

"Well spotted," Sophie says, "Parker, give him his present, dear."

The little blonde thief obliges. "But what does it _do?"_

"What does it do?" Hardison says, taking the instrument gingerly with his nimble inventor's hands, "What does it _do?_ It plays music, that's what it do."

He tucks the violin under his chin and plays a few notes, eyes closing in rapture as a beautiful melody pours out of it.

Parker makes a face. "That's all? What else does it do?"

"It provides comfort and relaxation to its players and its audience," a new voice says. Its owner appears at the door, the trademark deerstalker cap perched firmly on the unruly head and a walking stick tapping against a gloved hand.

Nathan Ford, the greatest (and only) consulting detective in the world, walks into the room. He is accompanied by his famous partner and flatmate, Eliot Spencer, a retired army doctor and now-famous author.

The three thieves freeze, their eyes widening in shock. How did they find this place, which is so hidden and secret that only the most cunning of thieves may find entrance?

But then again, the great Nathan Ford is more than cunning enough to discover it.

Ford's comment is followed by an incredulous snort by Dr. Spencer, though he says nothing.

"Uh," the little street urchin holding the violin stammers, eyes wide with fear. "Uh…it…she…I didn't…" He holds the shiny instrument out to the great detective.

"No, go on," Ford says, "Take your trophy. I merely wanted to see what great talent warranted such a blatant robbery."

"In other words," Spencer says gruffly, "You were so completely bored that you snatched up any excuse to investigate, rather than turn back to the bottle."

"You ought to approve, my dear Spencer," Ford admonishes his friend, "After all, you do growl so like the mother bear you are whenever I return to my old, slovenly habits."

Spencer's forehead furrows as he replies, "Drink is a terrible habit in excess, my dear Ford, and it pains me to see such a brilliant mind deadened by it."

Ford harrumphs.

"Actually," the good doctor continues, the scowl melting from his face, "I'm rather pleased that that blasted thing – please excuse my language, madam – has been taken. My ears can finally stop ringing."

"Spencer, really, my playing is not that bad," protests Ford.

The long-haired head shakes. "I beg to differ, Ford. Your playing is abominable."

Ford sighs, deceptively resigned. "Perhaps I can take up the trumpet, or the drums."

"Please don't," Spencer replies, rolling his eyes, "If you do, you may well find yourself murdered, and I would be hanged by a too-gleeful Inspector Sterling."

The three thieves continue to stare at bickering pair, perplexed by their relaxed attitudes.

Sophie clears her throat. "You didn't call for Scotland Yard, did you?"

Ford lets out another loud harrumph. "Believe it or not, I _don't_ need Inspector Sterling to bumble along and take care of everything."

"He does claim all the credit, though," Spencer notes, "I say, dashed unsporting, that!" He shakes his head again, then suddenly stiffens and puts his hand against his waistcoat pocket.

"I say, girl," he says, "Would you please be so kind as to return my wallet?"

"Garn!" Parker exclaims, "'Ow'd you do that, ya great toff?"

. . . .

* * *

AN: *hides* Sorry guys, I've got Sherlock Holmes on the brain right now. I saw the Ian McKellan movie, and just went to see a Sherlock Holmes exhibit (which was awesome, by the way).


	23. W is for Walking Stick

Summary: Bandit the dog goes on trial for murder. In my "McDonald Boys" 'verse, anytime after "See Spot Run."

AN: This stemmed from a conversation with **bprice** , a long, long, LONG time ago. So here it is. And also, I wanted to see lawyer!Lindsey.

AN2: Dude. I went from 119 reviews to 132 in like, a day. Thanks!

* * *

 **W is for Walking Stick**

"Where's Lockpick?!"

Lockpick, ladies and gentlemen, is a creature of infinite thiefiness. He is silent, small, nimble, cunning, and blends in with his surroundings. The perfect thief, according to his owner, has all of these traits.

Not like Bandit, Eliot's (and by association, Lindsey's) Dalmatian. He's loud, big, clumsy, stupid, and has _spots._

Although, Bandit is pretty good at stealing food out of the refrigerator. So that actually makes him pretty smart and cunning.

Not that Parker likes Bandit right now.

Anyway, Parker's beloved new pet, Lockpick (aka The Perfect Thief), has disappeared without a trace, and it is obviously all Bandit's fault. Because Bandit eats anything that isn't nailed down, and even if it is, he'll eat the nails too.

So _obviously_ , he would eat a poor, small, defenseless walking stick insect like Lockpick.

 _Obviously._

(Yes, had I mentioned the fact that Lockpick is a walking stick insect? No? Well, he is. [And now I have.])

And since Bandit has _obviously_ committed murder, it stands to reason that he has to stand trial and go to doggy jail. _Obviously._

If only convincing the others of what is _obvious_ is as easy as it _obviously_ ought to be.

But eventually, with much persistence (and annoyance, on the part of the rest of the team), a doggy court is set up and a trial date is made.

And Eliot, _obviously_ upset that _his_ best friend has been accused of nothing short of murder, has whined and coerced and bribed Lindsey into defending Bandit as his lawyer instead of making Bandit take responsibility for his doggy misdemeanor.

Parker, seeing this, _obviously_ whines and coerces and bribes Hardison into acting as the prosecuting attorney at the trial, and Nate somehow ends up as the judge, and Sophie and Maggie are "invited" to sit in the jury box (aka the couch).

"Bandit McDonald, where were you on the night of the 26th?"

Bandit whines and hunches his head down in misery.

"Your honor, the accused refuses to answer."

"I object!" says Lindsey, blue eyes flaming with the need for _justice._

Nate rubs his head and wonders how he ended up involved in this circus. He pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a sip from his glass. "Just ask him yes or no questions."

Hardison clears his throat self-importantly, and continues his interrogation. "Bandit McDonald, were you at Parker's warehouse on the night of the 26th?"

Bandit tilts his head at Drops-Food-When-Scared-Man (Bandit has names for all of his People, like Hair-Like-Poodle-Man for Nate and so on) sniffs at him to see if he has food on him, and answers the question with a shake of his spotty head filling the air with the flapping of floppy ears.

Hardison, not to be deterred, marches on. "Did you eat the victim, Lockpick-Just-Lockpick?"

"Objection!" interjects Lindsey, oozing easy experience. "I object, your honor."

Hardison remembers with a gulp just exactly how good Lindsey's court case record had been before he'd left Wolfram and Hart.

And _obviously_ , Bandit is found innocent of all charges, _and_ Parker is ordered to apologize _and_ buy him a big bag of treats for falsely accusing him, _and_ Hardison is required to make him the Ultimate Dog Toy of Doggy Dreams.

Because that's how good Lindsey "Golden Boy" McDonald is.

Fortunately, for all those involved, Bandit is let go of all suspicion when the following week, Lockpick turns up in his little tank as if he'd never disappeared. Which he hadn't. Because he was camouflaged against all the other little twig-like twigs in his tank.

And Parker is court-mandated to apologize to Bandit yet another time.

Bandit squeaks his New Squeaky Toy Of Magnificent Technological Squeakiness at her and wags his tail. _Thump-thump_.

A few weeks later, Parker shows up with Looter, the Siamese kitten.

A few days after that, a horrified scream is heard, followed by "Put Lockpick down this instant, Looter! Friends are not for eating!"

. . . . .

* * *

AN: Errr. Yeah. Parker and animals. Always a bad idea.

Anon review reply: **Sarah** , I'm not familiar enough with the _Stargate_ franchise to write fanfic on it, but thank you for the idea!

Other reviewers: It looks like my PM function is malfunctioning again. I was halfway through replying to my reviews when they suddenly stopped sending, for some reason. I'll get back to you guys when I can. In the meantime, THANK YOU!


	24. X is for Xerox

Summary: A prank involving a copy machine.

AN: Oh, come on. I'm running on fumes here. I mean, what begins with X? Xenophobia (yes, actually, this was the first word that popped into my head)? Xylophone? Xanax? X-box? Xavier (okay, Professor X/ _X-Men_ crossover with _Leverage_ might have been cool…) XOXO might have been cute. But whateverz. This is what you get.

Enjoy!

* * *

 **X is for Xerox**

The smarmy, corrupt businessman's secretary swept out of her boss' office to copy a document that would ruin the lives of hundreds of people. This secretary, Ann (Ann _without_ the 'e'), had, incidentally, been very cold and mean and snooty to Hardison and Parker earlier when they had gone to scope the place out in disguise.

Therefore, Lady Justice demanded that some small vengeance be taken.

(Also, it was April Fool's Day…Eve-Eve.)

Anyway.

Ann went to make some copies. So make copies she did.

And, like a good, organized, detail-oriented secretary, she looked through the documents to check that there were no misprints or anything out of the ordinary.

Out of the ordinary is what she found that April Fool's Eve-Eve.

Instead of a photocopy of the original (rather nefarious) document, she had picked up from the tray a stack of paper with the words, "THIS IS STUPID. YOUR COMPANY IS CORRUPT. I QUIT!" printed on the top page in large, capitalized letters.

She blinked blankly at the page for a moment before rolling her eyes with an exasperated huff. "Honestly," she muttered, and lifted the lid of the copier to get at the paper some immature employee (she refused to think of such a person as a co-worker) must have left in the machine.

However, finding no such paper, she shook her head and put her document on the feeder tray to try again.

She pressed the button and waited impatiently for her copies to come through. Tap-tap-tap went her immaculately painted nails on the ugly gray plastic.

Ann grabbed the still-warm first sheet as it reeled out from the dark underbelly of the machine and was greeted with the message: "I TOLD YOU I QUIT! LEAVE ME ALONE!" This time, part of the message had been underlined.

She stared in disbelief.

"How- What- " she stammered. "There must be something stuck in the machine," she determined, and popped the side of the copier open to see if anything had indeed become jammed.

The machine beeped and the gears cranked alarmingly close to her rummaging fingers, making her jump and squeak in surprise.

Another two beeps brought her eyes to the small touchscreen on the front of the machine.

"WHAT KIND OF **IDIOT** ARE YOU?" ran across the screen. (CAPITALIZED,  underlined, _and_ **bolded** , oh dear. What's next? _Italics?_ ) "GET YOUR GRUBBY LITTLE FINGERS OUT OF ME!"

Ann gave a terrified squeal that went unheard by the rest of the company's _diligent_ employees.

Frightened half to death, she rushed out of the room and into a deserted hallway to have a quiet little breakdown in private.

As she hyperventilated, she remembered…the document that should have been copied and distributed by now was still in the machine. Giving a groan that was more like a whimpering moan, she surveyed her options: Go back for the papers, or face her boss' unforgiving wrath.

Having made her extremely logical and rational, undeluded decision, she smoothed her hair back into its severe bun, straightened her jacket, and strode back into the copy room with all the confidence she normally commanded. Almost. Maybe. Sort of.

Reaching the door of the haunted _(oh, don't be silly, Ann)_ room, the secretary stalled for a moment, rethinking her options. Face a mauling by the obviously quite ordinary copy machine, or get fired without references by her extremely merciful boss.

Right.

She smoothed down her skirt and click-clacked into the room, snatched the papers out of the tray, and hightailed it out of the room as fast as she could in her 4-inch heels.

"Another machine," she panted in the safety of the hallway, "Just use another machine, Ann."

So she calmed herself down, took the elevator to another floor, and proceeded to make her copies with hands that shook only a little bit. Or a lot. And maybe there was some checking over her shoulder and jumping at the slightest sound. But who's looking? No one. Because there's no such thing as haunted copy machines.

Obviously, she had been hallucinating, since these copies came out just fine. She was sure of it. She had checked and double-checked each page. Obsessively.

Straightening out her clothes again, Ann click-clacked back to her boss' office, knocked, and entered as if absolutely nothing had happened.

"Where the hell have you been, Anne?" Ann always imagined the extra 'e' at the end when her boss said her name. That was the kind of bastard Mr. Hughman was.

"The copy machine on our floor broke down so I had to go find another one," she said. Not really a lie, was it? There had been a…problem. "Here you are."

Hughman grunted as he took the stack of papers she handed to him and glanced at the first page.

And froze. Watery blue eyes widened. Sparse eyebrows shot up high on the balding forehead. Puffy red cheeks turned purple.

"The hell is this?!"

(Only, he didn't say it so politely, nudge-nudge, wink-wink.)

Ann risked a look at the page and screamed. A full-on _Psycho_ some-crazy-cross-dressing-lunatic's-gonna-stab-me-in-the-shower scream.

"THIS IS STUPID. YOUR COMPANY IS CORRUPT. I QUIT!" announced the sheet of paper.

Mr. Hughman slammed the stack onto his desk, scattering pages of "I TOLD YOU I QUIT! LEAVE ME ALONE!" "WHAT KIND OF **IDIOT** ARE YOU?" and "GET YOUR GRUBBY LITTLE FINGERS OUT OF ME!" all over the room.

Ann screamed again, covered her face, and ran out of the door.

"You're fired! Anne, you hear me?! Fired!" Hughman bellowed.

The sheets of paper settled down onto the desk and carpet like large, 8 ½" x 11" pieces of confetti.

Hughman threw himself back into his big, ominous leather chair and glared at one of the papers that had fluttered onto his desk.

His company's letterhead, along with the newest, livelihood-destroying company policies shone innocently up at him. Looking at the sheet under it, he found page two of the dreadful document, and under that, the next page. All around the office, his company's logo winked up at him.

"The hell?!" he shouted at the room.

(Of course, boys and girls, what he said was much less PG-13.)

Meanwhile, back at headquarters, Nate rubbed his forehead.

"Why can't you just copy your butt like normal people?"

. . . . . . . . . . . .

* * *

AN: Okay, it got more and more complicated as I was writing it, and now, I pity the poor, brave secretary, whereas before, I thought she deserved it for being snooty to Hardison and Parker. And why didn't she just print them out of her computer printer? Ummmm? I dunno. :P


	25. Y is for Yo-Yo (and Yee-Haw)

Summary: Apollo and Parker do yo-yo tricks. Their respective teams commentate between collective facepalms. Dialogue only.

AN: Short one today, mostly because it's funnier that way.

* * *

 **Y is for Yo-Yo (and Yee-Haw)**

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"Walk the dog!"

"Around the world! Whee-hee!"

"Skin the cat!"

"Rock the baby!"

"Ooh, nice one!"

"Thanks! Do the three-leaf clover again. That one was neat!"

"Here goes! Yee-haw!"

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"Are they seriously…?"

"Doing yo-yo tricks between skyscrapers with their rappelling gear? Yes."

"Why? _How_ \- Never mind. It's Parker."

"And Apollo."

"They're twenty-pounds of crazy in a-"

"-חמישה פאונד שקית?"

"Yep."

"But how did this _happen?!"_

"They were talking about the trickiest rappelling they've ever done, and, well…"

"Yee-haw?"

"Exactly."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

* * *

Hebrew translation: (from Google, so sorry if it's wrong) "five-pound bag?"

Slightly off-topic question: Why is the character called Apollo? I know, I know, it's the actor's name, but wouldn't Hermes or Mercury be better in terms of the character/myth relevance? After all, he's the Greek/Roman god of thieves. Anyway, that's something that has always bugged me.


	26. Z is for Zombie Apocalypse

Summary: The Leverage team deals with the zombie apocalypse. Silliness, of course.

AN: So. Happy birthday to me! Cake for all!

Thanks for the ideas for "Z" guys! I ended up sticking with "zombie apocalypse" because it ties back to the argument that Eliot and Hardison were having in "A is for Aardvark," and I had the most solid idea for this than the others. Sorry, really sorry that it's…not great. At least, in my opinion, I've done much better in the past. But…time crunch!

* * *

 **Z is for Zombie Apocalypse**

"Parker! For chrissakes, don't go near the zombie cat!"

Exclamations such as the above are commonplace these days.

The world ended 26 days ago. It began, as all such clichéd story plots go, with a botched science experiment. And a monkey. A botched science experiment performed on a monkey (who, incidentally, was named Par-KR2000).

26 days ago, the experimental "miracle monkey" escaped its high-security cage in the high-security lab in the middle of nowhere, and somehow ended up in the middle of Los Angeles (because disasters always occur in big cities, or else in tiny towns that get quarantined extremely quickly and then decimated by the end of the week by secret branches of the government that then cover everything up…but never mind that in this story, because that's not what happened. Par-KR2000 went to the City of Angels, not a small town where they've never seen a monkey with a shaved neck and a beeping collar before) by the morning of Day 2.

Years ago, Hardison and Eliot had jokingly argued about the best way to prepare for a zombie apocalypse. Gather weapons, store clean water, along with canned and dried food, medical supplies, blankets, and (according to Hardison) above all else, hoard toilet paper. Nowhere in either of their lists had the words "Keep Parker away from rabid animals" appeared.

An oversight that was soon remedied (by which we mean that by Day Five, Parker was forbidden to even look at "cute" bloody-mouthed, dead-eyed animals [yes, cute bloody-mouthed wombat included]).

Anyway, the zombie apocalypse had caused some changes in the group, although, compared to the changes made in civilian lives, perhaps the changes aren't so drastic.

For example, Eliot has gone all gruff "gonna shoot every mothereffin' zombie in the head on sight with my super-powered crossbow 'cause I still hate guns _even during the damn zombie apocalypse!"_ on them. So. Not that big of a change.

Hardison, after keening and whining and screaming and- Anyway, after panicking that the internet had gone down on Day 14 (and ignoring the two-day catatonic state that he went into), he picked himself up and started implementing his steps for "What to Do in the Event of a Zombie Apocalypse." He has ended up having to throw out about half of the rules, much to Eliot's annoyance (and annoying "told ya so").

Sophie has turned into a scary version of Annie Kroy and picked up the guns that Eliot had eschewed and…Hasta la vista, baby. (But in a classier manner than Schwarzenegger, of course.) The heels have gone, of course, and have both reluctantly and practically been replaced with sensible steel-toed boots.

Parker hasn't changed much. She still tries to pick up weird stray animals whenever she can, although the animals now tend to be a bit more on the rabid and brain-eating side. She may be a bit more zap-happy with the taser now than she used to be, but it's all in the name of survival, right? Of course, this just means that one ought not to sneak up on her if they don't want to be left unconscious to be eaten by the zombies. Unless, of course, one is already a zombie, in which case one's brains will go _splat_ from the electrical current vibrating through one's undead brain.

Nate had woken up on Day 5, wondered why he was still hung over, and gone back to bed with a bottle and the hope that it would all be over by the time he woke up again. Unfortunately, the next time he woke, it was with Sterling standing over him. Unfortunate because the first thing out of Nate's rival's mouth was "Braaaains."

So, all in all, aside from the last part, not too much of a change.

They'll survive this. They have to. Because the alternative is to just give up, and the Leverage team (minus their now brain-eating mastermind) doesn't give up. Ever.

. . . . . . .

* * *

AN: Yeah, that was kind of bad, right? Pretend that it was only bad in a cheesy zombie movie way, and not like, by accident. *hides*

 **References:**

Parker and the zombie cat – In this collection, Parker seems to have a thing with weird animals. So I figured that a zombie cat would be right up her alley.

26 days – There was that apocalypse movie/book/sequel called _28 Days Later_ , so this is an allusion to that. I haven't seen it, though, so basically, I'm just sticking it in there without knowing what the heck I'm talking about, beyond Wiki. It's 26 days because that's how long I've been posting these fics.

Science experiments and monkeys – Right? It's always something like that.

Par-KR2000 – Duh. An allusion to Parker 2000, the robot that Hardison made for Parker that she was jealous of. Also another meta self-allusion to Parker the monkey in the pirate AU ("O is for Ocean") in this collection.

Hoard toilet paper – _Supernatural_ reference. I thought a nice tie-in to my first real fandom might be nice here, especially since my birthday collection started with "Twenty Questions" in the SPN fandom.

Internet going down on Day 14 – FF.N's servers went down on my 14th day of this collection. I can well imagine Hardison's horror.

Hasta la vista, baby – Okay, not a zombie apocalypse allusion, but I had to.

Parker's taser – obvious allusion to the show, but also, "zap" is a Z-word, so I just kind of stuck it in there.

. . .

 **AN again:** _"Well I know they say all good things must come to some kind of ending…"_ – "Thinking of You" by Christian Kane

So. This is it. Last chapter in the collection. Last birthday collection I'm probably going to write. I _may_ write a one-shot birthday fic that would be posted on the day of my birthday next year, but I haven't made up my mind about that yet. But I have decided (as of this year) that writing more than 26 fics is toooooo much.

Thank you all so, so, so much for all of your support and reviews and comments and *squee*-age. I really appreciate seeing what you guys think and love all the suggestions that you make. I've met a lot of really cool people through this site, and I really like how close you can get to people you've never met in your life, just because you happen to have the same interests. (Hence the super-long PMs in the past, heh.) Anyway, I just wanted to say thanks, and especially to the following people:

 **irma66, ann** (sorry, for some reason, this site won't let me save your whole username. What's up with that?!), **zippy zany, hoellenwauwau, A Lyrical Dreamer, Crisdin, Harm Marie, rmonroe, Tacodestroyeravenger, Ginipig, kt8a,** and **Honorat!**


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